Equanimity
by TrueAwesomeSauce
Summary: Can Jim Kirk learn to understand Vulcan? How different are they, really? Unpleasant circumstances force the Captain to face particular barriers to communicating with his First Officer.  Here be humor, angst & philosophy; and questions of perception.  S/U
1. Equanimity

Equanimity

_Disclaimer:_ No, I don't. Because if I did, I'd try to find a way to make a certain Romulan take it all back. So there.

Equanimity

_Equanimity_

Jim Kirk was beginning to learn how very much it took to – perturb? upset? – disturb his First Officer. Perhaps it was good that he'd experienced, early on, that it was possible to do so, and what happened when something did. Somehow, that seemed to keep them all from mocking Spock too much or taking advantage of Vulcan equanimity.

And it was definitely hilarious to see the _Enterprise_ crew tiptoeing around him at first as though he were liable to explode at any moment.

When new personnel were brought onboard, they had the tendency for a few weeks to stand really stiffly around Spock, talk all formal, and try to hide their fidgeting. But, after a few days, you always could tell the ones that the crew found less than impressive: They would be told the story. They gulped a lot. It was awesome.

Sooner or later, though, whether they decided to actually like the Vulcan or not, they all came to rely on the Zen-Spockness. On frustrating missions, Spock was cool and collected, and they all drew on that strong reserve. Nothing moved him. In fact, Jim had never seen anybody with the ability to stand so still for so long. The guy even looked comfortable about it.

Spock usually displayed curiosity, nothing more.

Eventually Jim realized that Uhura was right: Spock wasn't simply hiding his reaction to things, they just genuinely didn't get to him the way they would to anybody else. Jim supposed that if something _did _bother Spock, the Vulcan filed it away while he got on with the business at hand, and then sorted through it all later in meditation.

But now Kirk was on his way to Spock's quarters. He didn't want to go. Well, that wasn't exactly true: He knew that, as his commanding officer, he should go talk to him - wanted the guy to know he was concerned; but he was kinda nervous - if he was totally honest, maybe even just a little bit scared.

This certainly wasn't a feeling he'd expected to have to deal with today. He was prepared to deal with something else entirely: They had finally had an evening off at a Starbase.

Still, here he was.

They had called at the base to transfer some personnel; and get supplies, including certain specialized equipment for the Science Section. Obviously, Spock had been looking forward to this, and there was a lighter-than-usual s_ome_thing in his non-expression that made Jim ask impulsively, "Hey, Spock, I know you don't usually do the shoreleave thing, but several of us are going to go to the base lounge after shift. You wanna go?"

And Spock had actually accepted. (His eyes hadn't even slid toward Uhura, first.)

So, a few hours later, the group had shoved a couple of the small bar tables together, and were getting ready to enjoy themselves. Even Uhura had assigned a relief for a while – something she rarely did in dock – and joined them. Scotty, Chekov and Sulu had arrived first, and grabbed a good spot where they had the waitresses' attention and could take in the view. Perfect.

Then Spock had gone up to the bar to get something particular for Uhura, and Kirk took advantage of his absence to slip into the empty seat next to her. The evening was looking good – Jim had managed to make her laugh. And it was a good laugh, a real one, with her head thrown back enough to make the end of her ponytail flip, and show the length of her neck. She teased him back and they talked for few minutes before her eyes strayed, as they inevitably did, to look for Spock.

The Vulcan was talking to someone at another table - another scientist, presumably. His body was angled toward their own table, and as Uhura sought him, his eyes rose to meet hers. (How did they _do_ that? Kirk wondered, bemused.) Spock gave the slightest of not-quite-a-nods and returned to his conversation.

Uhura was smiling, relaxed. She leaned over and said something to McCoy, who gave her one of his trademark wry grins and laughed. Jim grinned, too. Definitely a good night.

He knew he was lucky to have this crew: They respected him on the Bridge, and treated him as an equal when they were all off duty.

He realized that, given a choice, there were very few people he would prefer to spend time with.

Spock was on his way back, gracefully weaving between tables growing noisier and more crowded by the minute. Avoiding physical contact with other lifeforms was a pretty handy habit to have developed, Jim decided - and Spock made it look effortless. He managed to give lots of room to all of them without being offensively obvious about it.

Nevertheless, one big ugly guy, scruffy-looking, thrust his arm out and said something to the Vulcan as he passed; Spock dodged him neatly and kept walking.

The guy said something louder, meaner; Spock ignored him completely.

By the time Spock was almost back to their table, the big guy was up, following him, hurling - what? Insults?

Spock placed Uhura's drink on the table, two fingers quickly brushing the back of her hand as he turned to face the belligerent alien. His body language was as controlled as ever, his face as calm.

Uhura picked up her drink, took a sip. She was no longer relaxed, but she was doing a good job faking it. Apparently, Jim thought, she wasn't to get involved.

"For the comfort of the other patrons of this establishment," Spock said to the alien, quietly, "lower your voice."

The guy was now close enough for the rest of them to hear; Jim was already rising to his feet by the time he registered the taunting words. "'Seven years' passes quickly, yes?" The man's voice made the poisonous sibilants writhe. "Especially so far from the others of your species."

Spock advanced by one small step. It was clear he was not going to let this being accost the table. His voice was just a bit softer, just a bit deeper. If you were smart – and it was obvious this guy wasn't – you'd realize that that, maybe, was a voice bordering on the dangerous. "I suggest you return to your companions."

The burly man lunged forward, clearly intent on getting to Spock.

The other members of the _Enterprise_ crew stood up: The table was still between most of them and their First Officer, but it was plain that, no matter what, they had his back.

The other was half-hissing, half-snarling. "Do you sense their cries across Space?" Burning eyes half-mad were locked on Spock. "Did you - _then_? Wherever you were, surely you didn't miss that?"

Spock had turned to stone. The alien managed to close the gap between them, then, and was right at Spock's side. "Tell me, Vulcan," he spat, twisting lips mere inches from one elegantly pointed ear, "do your dead scream, too?"

To Kirk and Uhura - to the two who were closest to Spock, and close enough to realize what they were seeing - the tiniest twinge of a muscle to one side of his mouth was as clear as a laser beacon: Spock was profoundly shocked. His eyes opened just a little wider; they grew blacker, deeper, bleak; then shuttered. He didn't breathe - and as the silence stretched, the stranger began to stumble backwards; one step, two.

Fleeing, he scuttled back to his table and sank into a chair, trying to make himself small.

Spock stood without moving for one more eternal second, then slowly turned. His empty eyes flicked over the people standing awkwardly around the table, resting on Uhura for a moment. His eyes closed, for the space of a heartbeat, and reopened looking into hers. He blinked. Glancing around at them again, he lowered his chin stiffly just a fraction of an inch, then turned away. A moment later he was gone.

Jim was sure Uhura would follow him. Perhaps she thought she would, too: She remained on her feet while the others reached behind themselves and collected their chairs. She gazed at the drink Spock had brought for her; with one finger she pushed it back to where he had set it down. Then she was standing in front of her chair - She was sitting.

No one spoke. Still standing at Uhura's side, Jim found he was reluctant to take the seat left empty by Spock's departure.

Uhura picked up her drink.

The din of the bar crashed against the wall of silence that had seemed to surround them.

"Well, now," Scotty said, and fisted his glass. In the next instant, McCoy muttered something to Sulu, and Jim went round to reclaim the chair he had abandoned. Time abruptly returned to normal.

The next hour or two passed more-or-less pleasantly. It certainly could have been worse. Still, once she finished the drink she'd been nursing, Uhura looked around the table and rose, favoring them all with a slight smile. "Thank you, gentlemen," she said.

Before she could slip away, Jim stood as well. "Miss Uhura," he said, "at least let me see you home."

"Of course, Captain."

The two said their good nights, and as they made their way out, Jim found himself suddenly weary. In the corridor, Uhura took his arm, and Jim allowed himself to think, just for a second, that Spock could not possibly know what a lucky bastard he truly was.

Then, memory hit: Spock. _Damn_.

So now he was on his way to Spock's quarters. He had stopped first at his own, to change, and then at the Bridge, because, well, he was the Captain… Then his grown-up mind kicked in and told him to get on with it, before the night grew much later: It was time. He didn't want to go. Well, that wasn't exactly true – As a superior officer, he knew he should; as a friend, he wanted to, to let Spock know he cared; but as irrational as he knew it was, Jim couldn't help it: He was nervous.


	2. Home Away From Home

_Home Away from Home_

Jim Kirk stood outside the door to Commander Spock's quarters.

Twice, he raised a hand to press the chime, and twice that hand fell. He knew himself to be woefully unprepared for this situation. He realized he didn't even really know what 'this situation' was.

How could he ask what he wanted to know?

What could he possibly say?

And why did Vulcan equanimity have this effect on him?

Knowing what to say - making conversation - was not exactly difficult for him. Jim had been told (probably too many times for his own good) that he could charm the birds out of the trees. But his normal methods were certainly not going to work here: Humor, sarcasm, and shameless flirtation were right out; and Spock, so far, seemed immune to the charm. Well, Jim supposed, that left only one thing: Unpredictability.

With Spock, that would have to be his ace-in-the-hole.

Suddenly, Jim felt better. Go with the flow? That he could do. He was an expert, and his First Officer knew it.

He pressed the door-chime. A moment later, the door whooshed open.

Jim didn't visit Spock in his quarters very often. When he stepped inside, he was overwhelmed by experiencing so many alien sensations all at once.

There was the initial blast of heat that struck him as he stepped through the doorway. Even expecting it, his body tensed, as though preparing to flee from fire. He supposed, for Spock the effect was the opposite: His muscles probably relaxed, finally, after spending the days half-frozen. (Hmmm. There was something to ask about later.)

There was the fragrance - of incense and spice and tea - of _Vulcan-ness._ (This was something Jim couldn't explain or describe: It was just…different, otherworldly - as though everything left from that planet were imbued with some essential _something _formed from dust, and heat, and strength - and loss.) Spock's quarters smelled good - great, actually - but with a subdued scent that, somehow, made Jim feel lonely, or sad.

There was the quiet. Equipment that cheerily clicked and bleeped and pinged in his own quarters was hushed here, hardly daring to break the silence.

There was the light – or lack of it. These red-draped rooms were habitually kept dim, even more so in the evening; and he was momentarily blinded when he moved in from the bright blue-white glare of the corridor. As his eyes adjusted, he knew, he'd be able to make out the standard Starfleet décor – made mysterious by the half-light - and Spock's own possessions: A few precious artifacts, each amazing, which spoke of an aesthetic that seemed somehow out of reach.

He held still, his eyes shut, waiting for the disorientation to fade. He heard the door close behind him. His body was relaxing from its initial reaction, the pounding in his ears slowing. He was able to breathe deeply, and the scent was familiar. Surely his eyes had adjusted? He opened them.

At first he thought the room was empty, except that there was an expectant something in the air.

Spock was at the far side of the room. He stood motionless. Although his face was partly turned from the door, Jim could feel his eyes.

But he had the impression he wasn't the focus of the Vulcan's attention – Spock seemed to still be listening to something that had been said before Kirk's arrival.

Uhura was standing near Spock - not an arm's length away - turned toward him, one slender hand lifted slightly. Still in uniform, she somehow looked to be almost a part of the room. Jim could see her perfect profile: She appeared frozen mid-movement, like she had been going to him, and started to turn at the sound of the door - but couldn't quite bear to look away.

Then, for the second time that evening, time started slowly flowing again.

That slim feminine hand came down to rest lightly on the Vulcan's forearm. Her face turned to look back into Spock's, even as his eyes sharpened on the Captain.

Uhura's hand softly stole over Spock's wrist and came to rest on his own pale one - which rotated, then, to receive it. His eyes snapped to hers, and held. Her face tilted up, his chin angled down…

Jim once again had that familiar feeling of volumes spoken in silence; though, perhaps, this silence was less serene than the one normally enfolding these two. (Or maybe that was just him.)

Then Uhura was turning. Her fingers dropped from Spock's. Her eyes were huge, luminous.

Spock was looking toward Jim, his hands moving to clasp behind his back - and _there_ was that well-known Vulcan pose.

Suddenly, the moment was broken. Jim raised his hands and shoulders in a shrug. "Hey, guys," he said.


	3. Unpredictable

_Unpredictable_

Uhura came toward him, her expression unreadable. Jim thought she was going to stop, to speak; but she didn't. She reached and gave his arm a gentle squeeze – Was that a hug without stopping?

Yes, he thought it was.

She continued toward the door, then left with one lingering look back, at Spock, over her shoulder. Her moving figure stood out sharply silhouetted against the brightness of the corridor, before the door whooshed quietly into place.

Spock's eyes followed her until she was gone from sight, then returned to Jim. He didn't move. He said nothing. He waited.

The guy really had the whole Vulcan inscrutability thing _down_.

Jim decided that he ought to make his own position clear: He was here for the long haul, so Spock might as well spill.

Jim figured he could at least make himself at home – Unpredictable, right?

He strolled through Spock's quarters, picking up a few items, idly examining them before putting them back more-or-less where he'd found them. He leafed through a book or two, took the lid off a pot (the stuff inside smelled good). He crouched down to study a sculpture of a warrior – even with a helmet covering eyebrows and ears, it was obviously a Vulcan – its profile was spookily like Spock's. He gazed at the few pictures on the wall, ran his fingers across the strings of the harp-thingy, touched the carvings on the antique chair. He poked his nose into the little stone brazier.

And the whole time, Spock just stood there, still, just watching him.

Finally, Jim flopped down onto the neatly-made bed. He crossed his ankles, laced his hands behind his head. "Hey, Spock, some evening, huh?"

For a long moment, Jim thought maybe Spock would leave. Then Jim thought that maybe Spock was going to pretend he wasn't there. Then Jim thought, 'Well, this is awkward,' and hoped Spock wasn't going to throw him out bodily.

Jim forced himself not to fidget. He made a real effort to look relaxed.

Then Spock moved to his carved wooden chair, and sat.

His posture was stiff. He didn't look at Jim; his face was averted. After another moment, he propped his elbows on the arms of the chair, his fingers interlaced in front of him.

After yet another moment, Jim realized that Spock had actually managed to avoid answering a question.

Fascinating.

Was this an in-my-own-home thing? A get-the-hell-out thing? Or had Spock deemed the rhetorical beneath his notice?

Whatever.

Staying unpredictable seemed like a good idea. What should he do, or say? What would Spock expect him to do, or say?

Aw, hell, he wasn't even sure what he wanted to do, or say.

He looked over at Spock.

"So, uhm…"

Spock's face turned away a fraction of an inch more. Apparently his hearing was still working.

"…yeah." Jim looked up at the ceiling. He crossed his ankles the other way. He hoped he didn't have his boots on the black and gold embroidered thing that had been draped across the foot of the bed so precisely. He decided not to check, since that would blow his chances of looking even remotely relaxed.

Another really long moment passed, then Spock spoke. His voice was cool. "Captain, I presume you have some purpose here?"

Purpose? Yeah… Jim thought about it. What was his purpose? "I guess."

He reached back and grabbed one of the pillows, and jammed it under his head.

He could almost hear Spock thinking. Then, was that a hint of curiosity? "Would you care to share with me what that purpose might be?"

"Sure." What was his purpose? He wanted Spock to talk to him. He wanted to tell Spock that he thought he was a pretty good guy, and was concerned about him sometimes. He wanted to tell Spock that he wished he understood him better. He wanted to tell Spock that he scared the hell out of him. And he wanted to know what the _fuck_ had happened at the base lounge.

Spock was waiting.

Jim crossed his arms.

"So, uh, Spock. I was just gonna say…" Spock's face had turned back toward him marginally, making up that fraction of an inch, maybe even more. "What the _fuck_ was that, at the base lounge?"

Spock surged up out of the chair, and then, mid-step, halted the momentum - so that he was controlled by the time he had moved one meter.

Jim jumped in panic. He had half-risen to his feet, and sank back on the edge of the bed as the Vulcan moved away from – rather than towards - him. Jim's heart was racing, and he felt light-headed from the adrenaline rush.

Whoa. Maybe he didn't really need to mention that whole "You scare the hell out of me" thing. Might give Spock the wrong idea.

At least Jim was still being unpredictable - and that was a plus, right?

He pushed himself to his feet, and went to stand an arm's length from his First Officer's right shoulder. "So, uhm. Some Vulcan thing?"

Spock didn't turn. Jim wondered whether that slight change in tension in his shoulder might constitute a shrug. Spock's chin lowered slightly. Jim decided that that might be a nod.

"Ah. So, uhm, I'm guessing it's some Vulcan thing that you don't particularly want to talk about." It wasn't a question, so Spock could ignore it, if he wanted.

Apparently, he wanted. But – his body shifted slightly, and some of the steel seemed to leave his spine.

Okaaay. Not demanding an answer was good.

Something was tugging at Kirk's memory. "Seven years," that son-of-a-bitch had said.

'Seven years'?

Oh. Oh, no.

He really didn't want to ask this, but: "This Vulcan thing… it has to do with biology?"

"Biology?" Spock had turned toward him, the smallest amount.

"'Biology,' as in – 'Vulcan biology'?"

Spock's eyebrow was rising.

Jim continued, a little desperately, "'Vulcan biology' as in the 'biology _of _Vulcans'? 'Biology' as in 'reproduction'?"

Spock had leaned back just a bit, his arms crossed over his chest. "Captain," he said, with a tone Kirk couldn't quite place, "I assure you I am very well aware of both the definition and common colloquial application of the word 'biology.'"

Good God, was that amusement?


	4. The Thing It's Not

_The Thing It's Not_

Well, now, this was unexpected.

Jim sank onto the edge of Spock's desk. He grinned a little. "Not 'biology,' then?" He couldn't keep the relief entirely out of his voice. Since he kinda had a secret thing for Spock's girlfriend, he was glad he wasn't going to be having that particular conversation.

"Not really, no." Spock replied. He was actually leaning back, now, against the wall. He even looked kinda… relaxed. Fascinating.

Well, alrighty.

Then it occurred to Jim: Spock was, apparently, amused by Jim's attempt to talk to him about sex; but not amused – not at all – about some particular other Vulcan thing. Now, _that_ was interesting.

And if talking about sex – which, in these particular circumstances, was, to Jim, about as appealing as having his fingernails ripped out while in the midst of a root canal – was more relaxing than talking about whatever the thing actually was; then that, surely, was an indication of how serious a deal it was to Spock.

Might be a good time to revisit the whole "I'd like to understand you better – but you scare the hell out of me" scenario.

"Technically." Spock said, into the silence, as though the word was reluctantly drawn from him. All things considered, it probably was.

Technically?

Spock moved past him and lowered himself into the desk chair. Once more, he folded his hands. He looked at them a second. Then he exhaled: A perfect Vulcan non-sigh.

No, said Jim's mind. No, no, _no_.

Spock's eyes lifted to meet Jim's, then shifted to look at nothing, some 4 feet to Jim's left.

Jim found himself moving to the empty chair opposite Spock and sinking into it.

"'Technically,' -" Jim's voice had a rising inflection and he hoped that Spock would take it as a question and he would not have to formulate a question… that he really did not want to have to formulate.

Spock gave a small nod.

Jim waited, hoping (please, God?) that Spock would continue on his own.

The Vulcan's eyes were directed to something not floating a few inches off the corner of his desk. "That… person," Spock said, with admirable restraint (Jim translated it in his head to – well, _worse_) "did make reference to Vulcan reproductive practices. However, the majority of his discourse" ('discourse,' Spock, _seriously_?) "centered around other aspects of Vulcan physiology."

Before his mind got too engaged on that, Jim thought, he'd better say something. "Oh," he managed.

Spock's chin lowered again, by the tiniest amount: Another nod.

Spock's eyes rose once more to look at that spot off to Jim's left. Jim stopped himself - just barely - from turning to see what Spock was looking at. He kept his eyes on the Vulcan's face.

A minute later, his patience was rewarded with a slight movement at one corner of Spock's mouth, and then a flick of those red-brown eyes. This time Spock's eyes returned to his hands, still folded in his lap. They were veiled by pale lids and black lashes.

After long moments, Spock smoothly rose to his feet, and deliberately paced three steps away. Two steps back. Now he was leaning against the partition, arms folded once more.

He considered Jim for a few seconds before speaking.

"At the close of the Twentieth Century," Spock said conversationally, "Your Earth was populated by some 6 billion people. Although the majority denied the possibility, the planet's resources were in danger of becoming seriously strained. More humans were currently alive than the sum total of all who had lived on your planet up until that time.

"Your people had not yet developed space flight technology capable of carrying your civilization beyond the bounds of your atmosphere. If Earth had been destroyed at that time, humanity would have been wiped out utterly."

He knew this. Spock, he suspected, knew he knew this. Fascinating though it was (and unexcited as he was to get to the 'Vulcan physiology' part of the discussion), he hoped Spock would not lecture too much longer: It was pretty unnerving to hear Spock, of all people, talk about the destruction of planets.

Taking a page from the Vulcan's book, he hurried him along: He nodded - though, given his nervousness, perhaps more vigorously than he meant to.

Spock stopped talking and looked at him in silence.

Trying to keep his face perfectly blank, Jim met those inscrutable eyes. Until that instant, he had forgotten Spock had been both Lecturer and Instructor at Starfleet Academy. He now had the uncomfortable impression that he'd just tossed Spock unceremoniously out of 'one-of-these-days-we-might-be-friends' mode and into 'scary Vulcan Professor' mode.

But maybe that was just him.

* * *

Jim could feel Spock's eyes intent upon him for one full second after he, himself, blinked. The Vulcan straightened, and clasped his hands behind his back. When he spoke, the tone of his voice was slightly duller. Jim wondered whether that was an indication Spock was disappointed.

That flat Vulcan voice continued: "Once Earth did develop practical space flight technology, multiple planets with suitable locations for settlements were identified. Humans quickly spread throughout the surrounding quadrant of the Orion Spur. They have sought - continuously - without cease - similar worlds to exploit: By the time this starship was launched," (Which day was that? Uncomfortable now, thanks,) "Earth contained some 13 billion inhabitants; and that many more were located on various Earth and other Federation Member colonies, bases and vessels."

Jim's brain caught up at that: Really? There were, like, 26 _billion_ Human beings out there?

It appeared that Spock could read him better than he could read Spock. The Vulcan's voice was a touch dry: "Your species is nothing, if not prolific."

About 10,000 clever responses went through Jim's mind at that point.

Spock waited while Jim sorted through them to find one that the Vulcan might actually think was funny.

When no quip seemed to be forthcoming, Spock spoke again. "There are many, often contradictory, reasons for humans to choose to leave their planet of origin. However, one constant has been proven: Humans, in their constant need to expand their horizons, have carried the basics of their homeworld existence with them into their new environments."

Jim hadn't really thought much about how his people were perceived by others. Yes, he had studied Xenosociology, and had had multiple classes and seminars in First Contact Protocol, Interspecies Ethics, and related topics; but he hadn't really thought about what, given a similar course of study, those other species might learn about his own. He filed this away for further consideration later. It was obvious that Spock had a great deal of insight – He filed that away, too.

He began to feel a little hopeful. Maybe he and his Second-in-Command might actually develop a friendship one day. Here he'd been trying to find ways to include Spock in stuff he enjoyed, himself – So far, he had failed miserably at forging a meaningful connection. He hadn't really considered that, given half a chance, the Vulcan would probably provide perceptive and interesting conversation.

What, he wondered absently, did Spock truly enjoy?

Now he realized that his Science Officer was giving him the most basic of briefings - and that, although there were things here to think about, his attention had wandered.

Jim glanced up. Spock was patiently waiting.

Jim nodded, and Spock continued: "When humans travel, the cargo holds of their ships are full. They do not limit themselves to basic equipment, and necessities for the mission at hand. Indeed, to humans, it seems, non-essentials - even luxuries - are indispensable."

Remarkably, Spock's voice contained no judgment upon what was, apparently, to Vulcan sensibilities, a peculiar phenomenon.

Well, maybe not remarkable: This was Spock, after all…

"Yet, humans will embrace what they find on new worlds, provided these discoveries can substitute for things already commonplace within Earth culture. Humans will incorporate the new, and cheerfully adapt. This adaptability is a primary facet of the Human condition. Your species continues to eat the same substances, and add; wear the same garments, and add; perform the same activities, and add. Things that are no longer of relevance are simply discarded."

That last was certainly true.

When Spock said it, the assessment seemed kinda generous.

As for the rest? "You're right, Spock, of course. On one training cruise, we even carried sheep as cargo for the weavers on DuBois 4."

"Precisely. You illustrate my point very well. Resources are abundant on that world, (and are exported profitably), yet humans prefer, if possible, to have that element of home."

Spock was silent for a long moment. Jim wondered what he was thinking.

Spock's eyes came back to rest on Jim; but idly, as though his thoughts were still distant. After a minute, his gaze sharpened. Jim was ready to listen when he spoke again. "One unintended effect of human colonization methods is the preservation of Terran plant and animal life. Humans enjoy consuming corn; therefore they take corn seed with them into space. They enjoy wearing wool, so they transport sheep by starship. As humans have spread and thrived, so have the transplanted flora and fauna of Earth."

Jim thought about that, and about the sheep they had had to transport. He wasn't sure why Spock was telling him all this, but the baaing had been funny. He grinned. "That's cool, right?"

Spock didn't sigh.

* * *

For a second, Jim thought that the Vulcan was going to exercise his apparent House Rule and ignore the question; but, evidently, that was only a one-time thing.

Spock crossed to the chair behind his desk, and sat, his spine very straight. He didn't speak for another second or two.

"Though the competition of the imported lifeforms with those indigenous to the worlds in question has not always proven to be of benefit to the native population, this aspect of Human methodology has certainly proven beneficial for the lifeforms thus introduced." The Vulcan delivered this speech in a voice almost toneless.

For a minute, Jim forgot to hear Spock's words: He was too busy trying to analyze what Spock's voice was telling him. There was conflict hidden deep in there – disappointment? Disapproval? And what? Appreciation? No, not quite… Jim blinked.

He glanced over at Spock, whose face was even more empty than his voice. Jim shook his head a little, and gave a wry grimace. "Sorry, Spock, you're gonna have to say that again."

Spock sat in silence and looked at him.

It occurred to Jim that this was, by far, the longest conversation the two of them had ever had.

They seemed to have come a long way from 'Vulcan physiology' – and seemed to be getting further away still, rather than closer. Not that he was complaining.

He looked back at his Science Officer. He was sure Spock had some point for telling him all of this.

"It has not always been so 'cool' for the native species, Captain," Spock said. His voice was carefully neutral: Jim listened for sarcasm, but it was strangely absent.

"However," Spock continued, "corn and sheep are plentiful, and the people are happy."

Jim was gleeful at hearing Spock talk almost like a normal person – right up until it became obvious how difficult this was for him.

The Vulcan stood and moved away, betraying something disturbingly close to anxiousness.


	5. I Suppose That Would Be Handy

_I Suppose That Would Be Handy_

For a long moment, Jim found himself looking at his First Officer's rigid, uncommunicative back. The Vulcan was so still that he didn't even appear to be breathing.

Then, without moving, Spock spoke, deliberately level and low. "Captain, have you ever wondered how Vulcans choose their mates?"

Oh. dear. God.

"Well, Mr. Spock," Jim said, trying to buy himself a little time, "I suppose we all figure it's done… logically."

In the silence, Jim could hear the tiniest sound: Spock had exhaled.

Spock slowly turned to face him, though he did not raise his eyes from where they seemed to be studying the standard Starfleet flooring. He shook his head in one small sideways motion. After one of the longest moments in Jim Kirk's life, Spock lifted deep brown indecipherable eyes to meet all-too-human blue ones.

Jim's heart thudded once, twice, three times.

One black eyebrow rose.

"By tradition," Spock said evenly, "Vulcan children are paired, by their parents' selection, when they are but seven years of age. A mental bond is created between them which assures that, when the children reach maturity and it is the proper time, they will be drawn together."

Jim tried to imagine such a thing, but it was difficult to reconcile while looking at his First Officer: Thinking about it was making him vaguely sick.

It couldn't be what it sounded like, surely?

When his mind started conspicuously avoiding the word 'inhuman,' he decided that instead of thinking, he'd probably be better off just watching Spock, listening to him.

It appeared that - now that he had made the decision to divulge... uh, _whatever_ – Spock was much more at ease. His tone was, once more, almost conversational, like he was discussing some random obscure scientific phenomena; and his eyes no longer held the same intensity.

Jim felt himself begin to relax, too – He hadn't realized that something within him had been taut with fright. Poor Spock, he suddenly thought – Does he have this effect on everyone? Is he aware of it?

Jim suspected that Spock was very well aware of the effect he had on others – even if he couldn't completely understand it.

With a disconcerting rush of self-awareness, Jim discovered that compassion was a very refreshing change from pity tinged with fear. He decided to say something before he over-thought his response.

"Well, that must be handy."

"Indeed." Spock said.

After a moment, Spock moved back to the other side of the desk.

Jim watched him walk, sit, lean back - all with a loose-limbed grace different than the very controlled grace he demonstrated on the Bridge.

He tried to figure out where the difference lay, but then thought maybe there was no difference: Maybe it was just him – something all in his own mind.

Just for a second, he wondered how much of what the crew saw when they looked at their Vulcan First Officer was what was projected by Spock, and how much was what they expected from him.

Certainly, here, Spock seemed… well, much more like a real person than he did the rest of the time.

Spock was looking at his hands which were, once again, folded in his characteristic way.

"Particularly," Spock said, in apparent continuation of his previous thought, "given the fact that, without a mate, a Vulcan will die."

Jim was startled by this blunt statement, quiet as it was. Naturally, he had heard conjecture about Vulcan sexual habits, in typical rumor-mongering college fashion. At the time, of course, there was a lot of rampant speculation and gossip, and none of them had known anyone who… None of them had known a Vulcan.

Now, he supposed very few of them ever would.

Oh, _there_ was an awkward, painful thought. Jim's mind shied away, and sought something else less raw.

How weird would it be to have such curiosity out there about you? To be so private, and to know that people wondered about that part of your life?

"Spock," Jim said, gently, "if this is too - Well, you don't have to tell me anything you'd rather - "

But Spock repeated that small sideways motion of his head, and Jim stopped talking.

Jim really wished he knew the right thing to say. Or anything to say, really. He discarded several options, then just sat in silence.

"I may yet be spared," Spock said, almost too quietly to be heard.

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Jim had almost asked Spock to repeat them, but by the time the words reached his brain, he was very glad he hadn't.

He looked over at the other man. Something in the line of that body looked hopeless or lost – vulnerable. If it were anyone else, he'd say 'sad', even.

"Spock, do you - " Jim couldn't ask the question that he was still trying to form.

He tried again. "Was there… someone for you, from when you were a child?"

Spock had turned his face away again slightly, when Jim had started to speak - perhaps in anticipation of what would, inevitably, be asked. Now, he was nodding: A single movement, not repeated.

It took another second for him to answer more fully.

"Her name was T'Pring. She is dead, now." Spock's voice was very Vulcan. After the last few minutes, it was strange to hear it like that.

"I'm sorry," Jim said.

"Everyone lost someone," Spock observed.


	6. Wasteland

_Wasteland_

Jim felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

'Everyone lost someone'?

Spock could say the most appalling things so simply, even matter-of-factly.

The guy even was able to convincingly convey the impression that he truly had no feelings at all. Lots of people would choose to believe that.

Yet - if only for a moment, and in the form of another mind - Jim Kirk had been touched by the pain that was held at bay behind those simple words.

What could he possibly say?

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair – closing, by the tiniest amount, the gap between them. Attracted by the motion, Spock's eyes slid toward him.

The Vulcan did not look away as Jim leaned in.

"Spock, not everyone knew what was happening, not everyone – saw."

"That is true," Spock said, his lips forming the words very slowly.

After a long moment of silence, something in Spock's gaze altered; and Jim was able to once again anticipate an apparent change of subject. Still, when the words actually arrived, he was surprised by them.

"Captain," his Science Officer observed, turning his chair slightly, "Vulcan colonization methods were very different from those employed by Humans."

Well, alright, Jim thought, I'll bite. "Is that so, Mr. Spock?"

"Indeed." Spock's spine straightened a little; and resting his forearms on the edge of the desk, he templed his fingers in front of him: This was a posture very familiar to anyone who had ever attended one of Spock's briefings.

Watching him, Jim could almost feel him thinking. There was a moment when he seemed to change his mind about what he should say…

"You noticed, no doubt, that I said 'were.'" Spock glanced up in order to receive the nod he obviously expected from Jim. "In such times as these, it is difficult to know how some things will proceed."

Amused in spite of himself, Jim was very glad that Vulcans were mainly touch-telepaths, and that Spock was unlikely to accidently pick up the name Jim was mentally calling him at the moment. "No doubt," Jim said, mimicking Spock's tone to the best of his ability.

Spock's eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. He was silent for a second or two. "I apologize. My facetious comment was unwarranted. I was attempting to put you at your ease, but I can see that I underestimated you."

Jim grinned at that. "No, it totally worked. Just maybe not the way you intended it to."

Spock nodded. "I would believe that that is a fair assessment."

Jim nodded also. They were in complete agreement on _that_, anyway.

He leaned back in his chair, and waited for Spock to carry on. When a minute passed and the Vulcan remained silent, Jim spread his hands in his habitual shrug. "So, 'Vulcan colonization methods'?"

"Ah, yes. Vulcans developed space flight technology long before the people of Earth did. However, our purposes were very different."

Spock drummed his fingers, for a second, on the desktop. He seemed to realize what he was doing and glanced up to see if Jim had noticed.

When their eyes met, Spock stood. Jim saw that as an impulsive movement, one he might have made himself…

Spock walked away those three familiar paces, then came back half-way to stand looking down at his Captain.

"I do not wish to lecture you," Spock stated.

"Spock, you're fine," Jim assured him.

"Hmmm." Spock said.

* * *

Spock looked at him for another few seconds; then, crossing his arms, took several long deliberate steps. Jim was sure he was going to start speaking any moment: He had seen the man do this same thing, any number of times, in the Briefing Room.

But he did not speak, and after just a turn or two, his arms unbent. Yet, he continued his slow perambulation.

It took Jim a moment to register what it was that Spock was actually doing – and truly, it wasn't much different from what Jim had done, as he (in defiance of his own nervousness) snooped in Spock's stuff. The only difference, really, Jim supposed, was that Spock knew what everything was; and he touched with two careful fingers in a gesture that was hardly noticeable when he did it, but seemed quite characteristic, just the same.

Jim was very used to listening to Spock talk – and to watching him pace. He really did spend a lot of time with the guy. But that was in the working environment of the ship - or on a random planet - or on a base somewhere, even. Coming here as infrequently as Jim did, it felt a bit strange to see Spock move soundlessly about the red-draped rooms that were his home.

However, Spock did not much seem to mind that Jim was watching him, so Jim didn't much worry about it, either.

His quarters were so quiet that any noise seemed startling when it broke the stillness. Spock spoke softly, in a musing tone, but Jim was not expecting it after his silence, and he jumped.

"Vulcan," Spock said, his fingers resting on the warrior sculpture that had intrigued Jim so, "is – was – an arid planet." He turned partway, his eyes far away over Jim's head. "You Humans often say 'a desert wasteland,' but I must confess I never saw that."

Jim knew he was guilty of thinking that exact thing: It embarrassed him, a little, that Spock should know of that assessment. Other words in common use – 'harsh', 'inhospitable', 'cruel', 'barren', 'desolate' – were no more complimentary; and his one visit to that world had not afforded him the opportunity to form a more favorable opinion.

Now, it was too late.

Spock's gaze sharpened and dropped. "To me, it was 'home.'"

After a second, Spock moved a little closer; Jim was able to feel those eyes looking into him.

"Vulcan's past was violent, the people barbaric. They – we - fought for water, and for food, and for the sheer pleasure of fighting – and killing." Spock's voice was deep, almost rough, as he told the primal story of the planet that gave him birth, and there seemed to be a host of voices silent between the words. "When the Time came upon them, they fought for mates who could bring desirable characteristics into the clan.

"The Vulcan people understood want. They understood need. And because these things were such a part of who they were - and how they lived - they learned, also, to be careful with what they had.

"They held their lands against their neighbors, and learned that strangers had things to offer.

"And knowledge - the thing that would allow one clan to triumph over another, to survive in the times of the heated winds – was protected as fiercely as the females who would preserve the line."

Listening to Spock in the heat and dimness of his quarters, with the spicy, dusty scent in his nostrils, Jim Kirk felt a shiver run down his spine. Spock - so cool, so collected - talked as though this was something he had lived through, himself: In every 'they,' Jim heard the 'we.' He looked up at his First Officer, there in the silence, and saw long limbs - and the power he kept hidden behind stillness and deliberation and an expressionless face. Jim was acutely aware, again, of the dangerous strength held in check by Spock's fierce iron will… And something in his stomach tightened.


	7. Vulcan Tea and Water

_Vulcan Tea and Water_

Spock moved closer, and Kirk felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. At the same time, there was a little part of his brain telling him how ridiculous this was – and Jim wanted to listen to it, he really did - but Spock was still talking about Vulcan's past, deep and intent, and he had moved closer still.

"As the millennia passed, the Vulcan people developed medicine so that the mates could survive the Time without injury, and childbirth without death.

"They trained in physical combat, and in the mental arts as well, and mastered their bodies so that they could live, and heal.

"They learned to find and utilize resources efficiently, so that the line could continue.

"They defended their lands so that the clan had a place to thrive.

"And they learned to predict the weather so that the clan could prepare for what came.

"Throughout all of this, they enhanced their knowledge, preserved it, and improved the line so that the clan would be triumphant.

"And then, they killed."

Until Spock said that last sentence - which hung in the silence for a long, long time – the chatty little part of Jim's brain was telling him that, if you left out all the stuff about clans and lines and mates, it actually sounded a lot like Spock, himself.

For a full minute, Spock just stood and looked at him.

Then Spock did speak – and this time Jim asked, before he thought about it, "Excuse me?"

"Tea," the other repeated. His tone was that same bland, level, all-occasion Vulcan one that Jim was now deciding he used on purpose sometimes, just to confuse. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

"Uh, yeah," Jim said ('_Tea'_?), "That'd be great."

Without another word, Spock went to the small alcove on the other side of the room and Jim could hear a very, very faint clink as he was there. His brain was informing him somewhat incredulously that the very terrifying Commander Spock was making him tea (for pity's sake!) – and that little thought made all of the tension go, straight away.

A moment later, Spock returned, empty-handed. After a bewildered second, Jim realized that the other had not simply pressed the order into the galley line, but was actually, really, making him a cup of tea.

Huh. Who knew.

So Spock returned, empty handed. He did not move toward the desk chair opposite, as Kirk had expected. Instead, he headed toward the empty space on the far side of Jim.

In silence, Jim watched him, felt him slip past – feeling, himself, just the tiniest bit adrift.

With a graceful motion that Jim could not possibly describe afterward, Spock lowered himself to the floor, his long legs tucked beneath him. After a second, he leaned his back against the wall.

Jim wanted to think that he looked like a little kid about to play with trains; but - in spite of the fact that Spock's leaning was clearly a relaxed attitude - he most certainly did not look like that at all.

He just looked very Vulcan.

But still, he was sitting on the floor, and he was leaning; and Jim had just had both visual and auditory confirmation of his intentions to brew tea. Jim wondered, just for a second, who had switched Spocks on him. He kinda liked this one – certainly more than the kinda scary one – but, honestly, he was really just getting used to the regular one, and missed, a little, the comfortable predictability.

They looked at one another.

"Vulcans mastered space flight before the development of iron in Earth's Middle East - before the cultivation of rice in Japan," Spock said.

Jim's complete inability to form a coherent sound in the wake of this pronouncement was apparently taken by Spock as a listening silence.

"In fact," he observed, "while Commodus was entertaining himself, Vulcan scientists were applying the technology gained from forays out-system to a complete redesign of our secondary water-production facilities in an attempt to further improve the efficiency of our sub-surface hydroponics."

He sat tranquilly for another full minute before murmuring, "Pardon me," and rising to his feet as gracefully as he had previously sat down.

Jim watched him walk away, perplexed. He was sure that Spock had a point, here, too, but he was damned if he could figure it out.

Spock wasn't being the coldly rigid Vulcan he was all day – was he? – but he was still being very Vulcan. For a second, Jim thought about trying to replay the whole day, to view Spock's other actions in this new light, but he figured he didn't really have time for that at the moment.

Then, he heard Spock's voice; and focused his eyes - still on the other's back - to see that Spock had half-turned to look at him. "Vulcan?" Spock repeated.

Jim's mind scrambled on that one.

Nope. Nothing.

"Excuse me?"

Spock put down whatever he was holding, and came back a pace or two. "The tea, Captain. Would you prefer Terran, or Vulcan?"

"Uh…"

Jim couldn't finish the thought.

Something in Jim's face must have given Spock pause, because he came back another pace or two, and said gently, "Captain, perhaps you are too weary to finish this discussion at this time."

Jim realized he was slouching in the chair, and he straightened his spine gamely before assuring Spock, as vigorously as he could, "No, no, I'm fine, Spock, go on."

But Spock shook his head in that single sideways motion, and moved deliberately to sit across from him again.

He flipped on his computer console, and quickly entered a few commands. He looked over it at his superior officer and said, formally, "Captain Kirk, I have chosen to relieve you for the remainder of this day." He continued in a tone a little less formal, "You may, as you prefer, relieve me on a future occasion, should you find it desirable to do so - but I assure you that that will not be necessary." And that last, Jim decided, was the voice of a friend.

Jim looked at Spock for a minute, and decided that - while he was sure he had Spock beat, still, on some other conversational tactics - when it came to unpredictability, it just might be a wash. He stretched and grinned a little, and asked, "Commander Spock, did you just give me the day off?"

And Spock nodded his small Vulcan nod, and answered, serenely, "Yes, sir. Yes, I did."


	8. Running

_Running_

He was running, running - sprinting so hard he gasped for breath. The cold desert air stabbed his lungs. His feet stumbled, but that only made him aware that he needed to run faster. He looked up, sparing one glance further ahead than the three meters in front of his feet that was the only thing keeping him from falling headlong. He saw Sulu's heels, Hickerson's. Hickerson stopped, turned, set to fire. Kirk kept running, Hickerson beside him, now.

They ran, projectiles thudding into the uneven ground around them.

He could sense someone closing. Spock had stayed behind only for a moment to take a reading, complete some necessary scan - had alerted them, insisted they go ahead - now he was catching up, swiftly.

Kirk glanced up again: The thin clump of small scrubby trees ahead to the left would be cover for beam-out, the only shelter anywhere in sight. Sulu was veering toward it – as he turned, he looked back, just for a second; redoubled his efforts.

Kirk looked back, too – Spock was running all out, his feet flying over the dusty broken ground.

Hickerson had slowed, a little, as the Captain looked back - but now, he ran.

Spock was just behind him. Kirk knew the other would not overtake him – they had debated this in the past - but would instead stay at his back, the Captain's last line of defense.

They were almost there, and Spock was the only one with breath to spare. "Spock to _Enterprise_," he intoned, before Jim was suddenly hurled to the ground - the weight crashing against him sending him sprawling, his legs pinned by the blue-clad form falling across them. Reflexively, he pulled his legs toward him, reached his hands out to move Spock's body – His hands came away soaked with green.

He hauled in a painful lungful of air, cried out for Sulu to call the ship – and woke himself with the sound of his own strangled sleep-filled shout.

He felt the ebbing flood of fear, pain, sorrow, and guilt. He heard the echo of Spock's waking voice, when deep brown eyes first shifted to find him standing at the bedside in Sickbay, "Captain, you are safe." He pushed away the creeping sense that he was undeserving - and he rolled out of bed.

His heart was pounding.

There wasn't a chance he'd go back to sleep now.

Usually, when he was sleepless, he'd go for a stroll, admiring his ship wonderingly like a first-time visitor. But now he was too filled with adrenaline in the wake of the dream – the memory.

Well, his body already thought he'd been running. Might as well do that, then.

He threw on a pair of old sweats, grabbed a t-shirt; and pulled it on as he headed to the turbolift.

It was way too hot in the Ship's Gymnasium. He started toward the wall unit to turn up the lights, call for Maintenance - when he heard a soft sound. It was a series of sounds, really - regular, and even like a machine - only muted, somehow, less solid. He went toward the sound, which was coming from one of the smaller rooms designed for dancing, or use as a ball court. It was even hotter here – 'hot as blazes,' his mind said. Sweat started out all over his skin, began trickling down his spine. He sank onto the bench in front of the transparent section of wall.

It was dim inside the court, the lights glowing orange-red. Jim's eyes had to work to catch the swift flowing movements of the figure within.

It was Spock, of course.

He was dressed in black Starfleet PT issue; and although there was an assortment of weapons ranged against one wall, he was, at present, unarmed. He was doing something that had to be a martial art, presumably of Vulcan origin: It looked like a combination of tai chi and yoga and karate, maybe - something that involved hitting and kicking things really, really fast. He had targets - some stationary, some that moved – and he hit the first in a fluid complex pattern while he took the others as they came at him apparently at random. The _Enterprise_ computer was speaking, intermittently, very quietly, but Jim couldn't understand her: It was strange to hear the familiar voice murmuring to Spock in what was obviously his native language.

Listening to the soft unintelligible whisper, Jim leaned back against the wall, and stretched his feet out. He felt himself getting a little drowsy - It was the heat, he was sure: This was like a sauna. A dry sauna – a very hot, very dry sauna - with a show, he thought wryly.

Spock was relentless. And, he didn't miss. This was no mundane training exercise – The Vulcan was intent. Watching him, Jim realized that, even in what was clearly a defensive posture, he was preparing for a battle he hoped never to have: Spock went to a great deal of effort to avoid fighting if he possibly could. Jim knew that that was partially philosophy, but now he wondered whether it might be more: Was it because he was aware of his own strength, his own speed?

At the moment, he was not holding anything back – and he was formidable. Jim watched for a long, long time, his eyes struggling to follow the graceful, powerful blurring movements.

Spock spoke one word calmly into the half-light – and in a moment, Jim knew it had to have been something like 'faster.' The targets came at him one after another, even two at a time. It was obvious that Spock was being tested, and he rose to the challenge with everything he had. And still, his hands and feet hit their targets one after another - over, and over, and over - and that staccato sound rose louder in the hush.

Spock said, now, an occasional word – probably a number – and a small sound escaped him as he launched himself in the air toward a target.

It was the first time Jim had watched Spock moving at the true speed he was capable of, using his full strength – He never would, Jim thought, if he knew himself to be observed. Suddenly, Jim realized this was a gross violation of the other's privacy. As quietly as he could, he rose to his feet, started to creep away.

Another Vulcan word came from the court – the sounds of impact, of fists and targets, ceased – Spock was turning toward him.

Jim stopped moving. He wouldn't stay, interrupt any more than he had already – but he couldn't run away, either. He met Spock's eyes through the transparency. "Sorry, Spock," he said, his voice sincere, apologetic. Spock was as silent as ever, but Jim could see his rapid breathing.

"Good night," Jim said.

In the stillness, the other nodded, his eyes never leaving Kirk's face. He turned to watch him go.

Before the gymnasium door whooshed behind him, Jim heard a single Vulcan order - and the small sound resumed. The _Enterprise_ continued the monologue she whispered for her Second-in-Command alone.

His thin sheen of sweat dried as Jim walked back to his quarters. He thought briefly about taking a shower; but he was sleepy now, really sleepy… He tumbled into his bed, and was asleep before he could pull the covers up.


	9. The Captain's Day Off

_The Captain's Day Off_

The next day – that same one, really – Jim Kirk slept mid-way through ship's morning. He rolled over and stretched, waking incrementally. It dawned on him gradually that it had been a long time since he'd stayed in bed until he couldn't sleep any more: He usually woke to a page, or lights shining in his face; to an alarm, or a crisis. These days, even the excitement (or aftermath) of shoreleave bounced him out of bed.

The slow progressive dispersion of lassitude was delicious. He spent another five minutes deciding whether he wanted to get up - ever - before he stretched once, experimentally, and lay still.

'Delicious'? Yeah.

He finally rose and showered, dressed in his Blacks without the gold shirt. He made his way to an empty Rec Room Five on autopilot. He was almost done with his leisurely lone early lunch before he found himself thinking about the surreal evening he'd spent in Spock's company.

Once reminded, part of his brain kept trying to talk to him about water-production facilities and hydroponics on a desert planet – while another part kept replaying the minutes surrounding the Vulcan's quiet, "I may yet be spared." It was bad enough that Spock had said those words – or, really, felt the need to say them – without Jim's brain repeating them over and over for him, thanks very much.

Lieutenant Uhura had insisted, once, that Spock wasn't just hiding his reactions to things; she had said that things didn't get to him in the same way they would to someone else. Jim had assumed that she meant that things simply didn't bother him. But, now Jim wondered… What if that wasn't what she meant? What if that hadn't been what she had been saying, at all?

For a long time, Jim had wanted to ask Spock the secret to Vulcan equanimity: It seemed too perfect, like some esoteric necromantic art. But Commander Spock didn't invite personal queries, and that was a question you couldn't just _ask_, without the right moment: Kirk had never had the opportunity – nor, he realized, made one.

But now he wondered whether he had been seeking the answer to the wrong question all along.

What, Jim wondered, would drive a Vulcan to fight so, in the middle of the night?

Jim had been walking back to his quarters. He stopped abruptly.

He decided to drop by Sickbay to hang out for a bit with Bones, maybe get his impressions on what had happened with Spock.

But Doctor McCoy was taking full advantage of a day with no dangers in the offing to do some reading about recent medical findings. He was making notes for himself on things of interest - and the list was growing long. He was happy enough to see Jim, but when the Captain did not seem to have any pressing business with him, his eyes kept straying back to his journal; and he slipped back into those pages without even meaning to.

The atmosphere here was companionable, but not particularly inspiring of confidences.

Leaning back in a visitor's chair, across from a distracted doctor with boots propped on the desk, Kirk found himself reluctant to rehash the scene in the bar, or relate any of what had been said afterward. Bones didn't even look up when Jim took his leave.

Jim flopped on the bed in his quarters. Long neglected, his book couldn't keep his attention. He thought about catching up on paperwork, but his brain whispered slyly that that would be a criminal waste of an unexpected day off. He sent a few personal sub-space messages, and tried the book again.

No luck.

Maybe it was just all the time he had been spending thinking about his Second-in-Command, but when he decided to take an aimless stroll, his feet carried him, instead, to the turbolift.

Spock often came to the Bridge when he was off-duty – Jim didn't: He tried to just let the others do their jobs without his interference.

He immediately admitted that that was an unjust observation: Spock never did interfere with the other people at work during his odd-hour visits - He just exchanged a few words, maybe, with the Captain; did a circuit of the stations; poked around, possibly, on an unattended console; then went on his silent way.

It was funny, he thought: The guy, basically, had three hobbies - and two of them were his job.

The third?

No. Jim was not going to go there… That relationship was, most emphatically, not his business: The two of them didn't publicly acknowledge it; and those who knew pretended, politely, that they didn't.

When Kirk arrived on the Bridge, he took a few paces in and stood - his hands behind his back - gazing at the viewscreen for a minute or two.

Spock was in the center seat. He had turned his head as Kirk moved forward – At that, Uhura glanced up, too, before her eyes wandered to some random spot, listening to something coming through her earpiece. Apparently deciding that the Captain's attitude and attire indicated he did not intend to resume his duties, Spock remained seated. He returned his attention to a readout scrolling fast in the periphery of the viewscreen.

Kirk moved the short distance to Spock's shoulder, and stood there for a bit. He hadn't done that before – stood where Spock usually did when he, himself, was seated in the Chair – and he found the change of perspective fascinating.

(How easily this could have been the usual view he got – if any, on this ship, at all.)

Spock didn't turn. He said nothing.

Jim assumed, when he stepped forward, to stand just behind Sulu, that it was possible that Spock's eyes would idly follow him: That was what his own did, sometimes, when their roles were reversed…

He made a circuit of the stations of the Bridge. It wasn't the slow grave progress that Spock made - He recognized that what he gathered from the process was probably very different from what Spock got when he did it, but it was interesting anyway.

The personnel looked back over their shoulders, and smiled at him as he came up. Some wanted to talk a bit; and most made gestures as if to point out something intriguing that they'd tell him about, if he would only ask.

These were good people, he thought: Dedicated, interested, proud of what they did.

The Science Station was empty, and information was flashing rapidly across the various screens. Presumably, there was some purpose, there, that Spock had preset. Jim could make no sense of it: He was tempted, just a little bit, to sit and check it out… except that'd probably look weird – and he might mess something up – and now Uhura was looking over at him, with a raised brow and quizzical expression, her hand touching her earpiece.

"Lieutenant," he said, with a nod, to forestall any comment she might make.

"Captain," she replied, evenly.

He kept moving.

A minute or two later, as he passed the outer ring of starboard stations, Uhura spoke again, her voice just a little louder. "Commander? I've completed the translation."

"I appreciate your efficiency, Lieutenant." Spock's voice was completely un-inflected, as he keyed off the viewscreen display, and held out one hand. The brief glance he gave Uhura, as she came forward to give him a comm padd, was exactly as it might have been for any other crewman. "Dismissed." His tone was disinterested, and he was already bending his head to read…

"Thank you, sir," she said smoothly, before heading to the turbolift.

Jim shook his head over the exchange. He couldn't imagine being in her place.

Then again, he couldn't imagine being in Spock's. Maybe that was the key, here, really. There was no doubt in Jim's mind that his First Officer was absolutely fair and impartial: Uhura could expect no preferential treatment.

Nor would she want any. (She was very determined woman – but Kirk knew by now that any professional success she enjoyed must be honestly come by.)

And no one was hoping to find it either, which had to help.

Maybe, all things considered, the situation wasn't all that bizarre.

Still, he hoped, just a little, that one of these days they could relax some. It would be great for people to be able to see that they were happy. Or that Uhura was, and that Spock was – well, whatever passed for happy with him, anyway… Jim grinned, at that.

He moved up to stand at Spock's right shoulder. The view, here, was actually pretty good.

Jim stepped forward, and turned, so that he was right next to Spock: This is where the other usually stood when they exchanged words, wasn't it? Spock looked up and acknowledged him with a nod. After a moment, the Vulcan quietly said, "Captain?"

Jim started to do the single-step-closer that Spock usually did, but his First Officer was not playing along. Instead, he rose smoothly from the Command Chair, and made a small gesture that indicated that they should walk together.

Spock had his own command style; clearly, any conferences while he had the con would be conducted on foot.

In that moment, Jim realized that, whereas Spock knew how to be both a First Officer and a Captain, he, himself, only really knew how to do the one (and sometimes, he thought, that was only 'sorta').

Fascinating.

Spock was waiting for him to speak.

"I was wondering, Commander," Kirk started, in what he hoped was sort of a low/conversational-type tone, "That is – I find myself - " Spock was now looking at him more intently. Before he could stop it, a tiny part of his mind wondered what the other saw. This was harder than Jim thought. "I was hoping you'd be able to explain to me Vulcan colonization methods."

Spock paused. Jim could sense his hesitation, and jumped in to try to fill the silence. "Strictly off-the-record, of course." He met Spock's eyes, and was, once again, unable to read them at all. "That makes it a request, Spock, not an order."

After a second, Spock nodded, and his feet started moving again. "In that case, Captain, I will accede to your request."

Jim let out the breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. "Great. Thanks."

Spock's eyebrow had done an eighth-inch climb, but now returned to normal. He was nodding.

Spock waited for the Captain to say something else. When nothing was forthcoming, he nodded his small Vulcan nod excusing himself - returning to the center seat and the work he had been doing. The rapidly scrolling display popped back into view.

Jim went on his leisurely way.

Down in Engineering, he found three guys in up to their elbows, with pieces of equipment scattered underfoot. Jim believed that the delight in Scott's welcome was genuine – but suspected that his 'Good thing you're here, then, lad, I could use a hand,' was more kind than factual.

Still, he rolled up his sleeves; and he was glad, when he was done, to see that he needed to dig grime out from under his fingernails.

He dropped by his quarters to grab a clean set of clothes.

He went down to the pool to get some exercise and maybe work out the kinks that never seemed to go completely away. A few laps in, as he turned and headed back down the lane, he saw Uhura standing at the far end. He had always appreciated that this was one thing that they had in common – and, though he didn't like to examine the idea too closely, one place her taciturn male shadow was unlikely to follow.

Her appearance in a swimsuit was as startling as ever, and he tried to picture her through Vulcan eyes.

All he heard above his own heartbeat was an echo of that deep voice telling him that Vulcans fought to win their mates, and protected them fiercely - He heard again the 'we.' He didn't look up as he made the near turn, and it wasn't until he was at the far wall that he heard the splash of her dive.

She was a lane or two over; but still, as they swam toward each other, he felt it was inevitable that they should touch hands, brush skin, in passing. He put his head down and swam, as though his life depended upon it.

He was exhilarated, exhausted, when he finally pulled himself out of the water, and headed in for his second shower of the day.


	10. Jim Kirk, Later that Day

_Jim Kirk, Later that Day_

Jim fell asleep reading his book. He woke up sprawled across the bed, feeling like he'd been on leave for a week.

He thought of all the times that Spock had refused to take shoreleave, expressing his preference to remain aboard. Maybe the guy had something, there, after all.

'Geez, Jim,' his brain told him, 'let up with the Vulcan, already.'

He reached back to put the book on the shelf, then slowly stood up. Stretching languidly, he realized he really did feel _good_. Lightly, without analyzing his motives, he decided to leave off the Gold for the rest of the day.

He walked through the corridors of his ship on the way to nowhere in particular. Some people smiled and nodded, knowing exactly what he was doing. Some were as formal as they ordinarily were; although, as Captains go, Jim Kirk didn't much stand on ceremony. Still others ignored him completely as though, without a Color, he was invisible. And a few just squinted a little, like they weren't quite sure who he was.

He was almost to the Officers' Mess when he saw Uhura further down the corridor.

He had noted this phenomenon before: Some days there was that one person you kept running in to, over and over... In this case, he really didn't mind.

She was walking toward him, obviously concentrating on something displayed on her padd. He was thinking of calling out to her when another crewman rounded the corner.

It was apparent Solas wanted to talk to her: He hurried to catch up with her, walked alongside her, touched her hastily to get her attention.

She stopped, and shifted her padd up in front of her, against her chest.

The two talked for just a minute. She shook her head. His smile was too broad, trying too hard to persuade - She looked a little uncomfortable, defensive. Jim wondered whether he should intervene; and just for that instant, he wished he wasn't the Captain. Solas said something and waited, standing just a touch too close. When she didn't answer, he said something else, and then, turning, went back the other way. Uhura stood still a moment, frowning, before walking on.

When she looked up, and saw Jim standing there, she seemed to hesitate, perhaps considering a retreat.

At last she smiled, and came toward him.

"Captain Kirk," she said, "have you had a good day?"

He thought about it; then answered cautiously. "Yes, Lieutenant, I suppose it's been good. Interesting, certainly."

She took another step toward him, looking at him a little more carefully. "Really. Is that so?"

Her eyes were wide, the corners of her mouth curled with the last traces of the smile still lingering on her lips. But yet there was that something reserved about her, withdrawn, that he had glimpsed as she spoke with Solas.

He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, not one tall enough to kill him, if he fell, but one just high enough to hurt him badly. He was remembering some of the things that had been said the previous evening – the way she looked in a swimsuit – the look on the crewman's face just now, as he turned to walk away; her hesitation. There were so many things Jim Kirk wanted to talk to this woman about…

He was aware that this was dangerous territory, and he didn't want to damage his tenuous relationship with her – and the hard-earned one even now growing with Spock - by asking any of the questions that he really wanted answered. This was diplomacy of the highest order, and a kind not taught in Command School.

He shrugged. "I dunno, I've just been seeing things from a new perspective."

She smiled, and the smile was genuine - pure Nyota – warm and tender, caring. "Seems like that should be a good thing."

"Yes. I suppose it should," he said, a little slowly, "but…"

Her smile was faltering, turning to a look of concern.

He hastened to reassure her. "Oh, nothing earth-shattering, really. Just… different, you know?"

She nodded; and he thought maybe she did know.

They stood there in silence for a few moments. Uhura looked him in the eye, then, and smiled. She gently touched his arm – closing the gap between them with an impulsive gesture of sympathy. "Maybe it'll turn out to be just what you needed, to see things a little differently. Uncomfortable, maybe, but good in the end?"

"Yeah. You're right." He grinned a little, and a little more. "As always."

She laughed, then, and leaned forward, surprising him when she kissed him on the cheek. Her voice was low and laughing, too: "Oh, no, Jim-honey," she said, "that's Commander Spock, not me!" She gave him an impudent little grin of her own, with two raised eyebrows, before continuing on her way down the corridor.

Watching her go, Captain Kirk found his world view shifting by another degree. He noticed the fresh bounce in her step and thought that - just maybe - Uhura had needed a friend, for a moment, just as much as he had.

Watching her go, Jim was glad he'd left off the Gold.


	11. Officers' Mess

_Officers' Mess_

Slowly, thoughtfully, Jim went into the Officers' Mess. It was too early yet for the day-shift Bridge Crew to start arriving, or, really, for the major shift changes to start to trickle through; but there were still a few tables occupied. He was glad no one was looking his way when he went to grab a cup of coffee.

Afterward, he wasn't quite sure why he was so reluctant to be noticed.

He took his coffee over to one of the tables further in – away from where they usually sat – and took a seat with its back to the door. He never really did that either; unless - now he came to think of it - Spock was already facing that way, and he could sit opposite.

Weird. When had it entered his unconscious, and become cemented there, that the Vulcan truly had his back?

Speaking of which… He felt again the rest of them rising to their feet behind him, at the base lounge last night. He had long known they were prepared to fight for their Captain. Knew it, relied on it. Evidently they were just as prepared to defend their First Officer, if he ever seemed to need it.

It dawned on him that, by this time yesterday, Spock had agreed to go with them.

Figures. He had actually gotten the guy to hang out with them for a bit, and look what happened: Some slobbering asshole starts shouting at him in a bar.

God, it must suck to be Vulcan.

Well, _yeah_.

But, apparently, not just for the reasons you'd think.

Jim thought back, and tried to replay the evening in his head. It was interesting: Spock did this all the time, on demand; and Jim never really thought about it, how hard it was to get right.

So - That ugly alien in the bar had said something about 'seven years' and Spock being far from others of his species.

Jim wished he had had it more together when Spock was talking later in his quarters. For God's sake, the guy had said bluntly, straight out, that a Vulcan would die without his mate - and Jim had interrupted him. Now he wondered if there was something there that he might need to know sometime: Assuming the Vulcan remained on this ship, that probably would come in handy, right?

Well, he could hardly ask at this point.

There was something else, too.

The asshole said something that had shocked Spock into immobility – frozen beyond his normal deliberate stillness.

Jim closed his eyes and tried to recall.

Hissing words… He pictured burning eyes and twisting lips. (It was hard to wrap his head around Spock provoking that kind of reaction in anybody. (Fear, maybe, just a little - that was only human – but _hatred_?)) Then he saw the burly bastard step forward – he was close enough to touch – he was spewing something horrible into the air near one pointed ear. Jim heard it again, all hiss and spit: "Tell me, Vulcan, do your dead scream, too?"

He saw the muscle tighten in Spock's lip.

He opened his eyes and was a little relieved to find himself in the slightly boring confines of the _Enterprise_ Officers' Mess. He thought, appreciating the irony, that maybe he'd had enough of shore leave, for a while.

He reached one foot under the table and shifted the chair across from him a few inches, then plopped his foot on the seat. He took a sip of his coffee, swirled the cup, and took another.

Leaning back, he watched his crew come and go. His perspective was different than normal, with his back to the door: People popped into view from the sides, passed across his field of vision, disappeared. Sometimes they lingered for a while, sitting to eat or converse.

No one disturbed him.

He was just thinking of going in search of McCoy - or maybe back to Engineering - when the door whooshed, and the room seemed to become a touch more vivid. A moment later, Mr. Spock was standing at his side, just within his peripheral vision. He glanced up, met the Vulcan's eye. He started to stand, but Spock made that tiny no-don't-get-up gesture, moving to the chair opposite. He looked a question, and, at Jim's nod, took the seat.

They sat in companionable silence. People came by, then, occasionally, to exchange a few words with Spock. Jim hadn't really paid attention, much, to that dynamic, before - but now he found it interesting.

He knew there were still people who resented non-Human officers serving on starships; and quite frankly, Vulcans garnered a whole lot of resentment on their own – or had, anyway. (Now? Who knew?) He had seen Spock receive curiosity, certainly, from Starfleet personnel and strangers alike; and, Jim suspected, along with misunderstanding, he got plenty of dislike - or at least distrust.

But these officers? He was surprised by how respectful their attitudes were when they approached and spoke, listened to Spock. Jim wondered how much of that was because the man was their First Officer, how much because he was Vulcan formal – and how much was just for Spock, himself.

Actually, he thought he knew the answer to that – and it gave him pause.

Most people, once they caught sight of Spock, hardly spared Jim a glance.

Without his Gold, was he really invisible, himself? He had the strange feeling he was seeing what the ship might be like if he were not aboard. But with Spock right there, completely unself-conscious, it somehow didn't seem so bad.

The door whooshed again. After a second, Spock's eyes moved meaningfully to the side. Following his glance, Jim saw the core of the Bridge Crew claiming their usual table, with Scott and Watley.

Jim smiled.

Then, he nodded, and Spock gave his small Vulcan nod in return. As Jim climbed to his feet, Spock gracefully rose, as well.

Jim was suddenly amused that, although the other had not spoken, yet, a single word to him, he had nevertheless said a great deal. And Kirk knew – _really_ knew, with absolute certainty - that Spock was one person on the _Enterprise_ who did not desire that their roles were reversed.

When the Captain walked up to their table, his people greeted him as enthusiastically as if he had actually been away on leave. They shifted around to make room for him to sit, and Spock went to claim the spot next to Uhura that had, mysteriously, remained vacant.

In various groupings they went to get trays, and seated themselves again, talking of all the things that they had stored up in the course of the day. Looking around the table at their animated faces, everything seemed very right with Jim Kirk's world.

The perpetual knot in his stomach was unraveling.

Chekov was positing to Spock some convoluted problem that was obviously a follow-up to some previous conversation. Sulu's brow crinkled, following the mangled words – and the Science Officer very subtly explained the purport of the question for the benefit of the others, even as he gravely answered it. Listening to his careful tone, Uhura smiled at him openly. Spock's eyes slid toward her for a second, when he finished speaking; and she looked, then, across at Chekov. Scotty chimed in with some humourous account of the idea gone wrong, and they were all (almost all, anyway) laughing now.

Jim felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see McCoy standing there, looking as relaxed as he, himself, felt. As one, the group shifted, again, to make room for the doctor. Sulu stood to grab another chair, while McCoy went to get a tray. The conversation continued uninterrupted, enfolding the doctor upon his return.

After dinner, people cleared their trays and left in twos or threes. Jim drifted out with Spock and Uhura.

In the Deck Five corridor, he felt a sudden awkwardness: They were headed toward Spock's quarters, and he knew he was a third wheel - even though he wasn't really supposed to know that. But when his steps slowed, as he considered turning toward his own quarters, Spock slowed, too - and Uhura, then, also. She smiled her encouragement; and Spock's brow had risen, the slightest amount, in a silent Vulcan interrogative.

So Jim's feet sped back up.

At the door to his quarters, Spock stood aside after the door activated for him, to let the others enter first.

Both Uhura and Kirk paused after a couple of steps, to let their eyes adjust; and Spock turned the lights up a little, to mitigate the dimness. Jim was relieved, though, that the Vulcan didn't feel obligated to return them to Ship's Normal on the Captain's behalf. Uhura, he was sure, was very used to these rooms, and how they were kept by their official occupant.

When Jim opened his eyes, Spock was standing in the center of the room, and Uhura was going to him. Jim felt time slip again into slow motion: She put a hand on Spock's chest; then moved forward by degrees, and leaned into him bodily. His hands came up, and smoothed her hair back off of her shoulder. He was murmuring something to her, very quietly; and she nodded, her head still against his chest. After a few seconds, she stepped back, then headed toward the bedchamber.

Kirk had looked away, pretending to study one of the pictures on the wall.

He was not expecting Spock's voice to come from right beside him, and he gave the tiniest start.

How did the man move so silently?

"Captain?"

When Kirk looked at him, Spock walked toward the desk, and rested one hand on the back of the chair in front of it. Jim took a step, and Spock turned. "Or, if you prefer…" He gestured toward the couch. The carved wooden chair had been moved near it, so that there were now several possible seating choices that would not necessitate two people sitting side-by-side.

Jim was surprised, touched. Spock had clearly anticipated this visit, and wished for him to be comfortable.

He was standing there, undecided, when Uhura came toward them, the strap of her squashy bag over one shoulder, carrying a padd. She smiled gently at Jim. "Good night, Captain," she said, before turning to Spock. She only reached out one hand - and touching the other's side, gazed into his eyes; but Jim found himself looking away, again, for a second, at the prospect of witnessing something so intimate.

Before pulling away, she whispered something indistinguishable. Spock's quiet nod made Jim think it was a 'good night', too. As she left, Spock's eyes followed her out the door once more.

When he turned those eyes on his Captain, and found Jim watching him, his eyebrow lifted. Jim smiled a little - as Spock clearly meant for him to do.

Apparently, the Vulcan wasn't done being unpredictable.


	12. In Which Jim Laughs

_In Which Jim Laughs (and Spock Uses the Words 'I am afraid')_

It was the first time – since, well, that first time – that he had seen Spock and Uhura interact in a way that could, by any stretch of the imagination, be realistically interpreted by an impartial observer as more than the average pleasant business-like relations between any two colleagues working together in such close proximity as these two did on a continual basis.

Oh, he _knew_ – They all did, really, that tight-knit handful that worked with the two of them day-by-day.

But - even to someone hoping to prove it - standing close to one another, and exchanging the occasional glance - falling silent, maybe, when anyone came too close – would, in human terms, hardly be credited as unequivocal evidence of a real friendship, much less a torrid romance. Nor, for that matter, would visiting the other's bedside in Sickbay, if that had even been noticed: Jim had done it himself, plenty of times, for injured crewmen beyond number - and none of those were more than good friends.

No. They were professional, and discreet.

Substantive proof had been scant to the point of non-existence.

Now, here, in Spock's quarters, it was plain (even from the exchange he had witnessed) that their relationship – whatever it was – was deep, and still going strong.

Jim could no longer deny that fact.

Inwardly, he sighed. It might not have been public, really, but that display was a definite demonstration of - well, if not actual affection, then something close…

And Spock's eyebrow admitted as much.

Jim wasn't sure what he should say.

And, standing there, Jim didn't know what he should do, either.

Unfortunately, as seemed to happen whenever he was alone in Mr. Spock's company - without specific work to be done - his brain started giving him all sorts of conflicting suggestions. He discarded every idea of what to say, but his brain kept talking: He had been invited to sit, and part of it thought they would both be more comfortable if he sat at the desk with that official-appearing surface between them, while another thought that the couch would set a more relaxed tone. Then the first part snorted at that, and asked why he thought that the Commander would be relaxed, at all, _ever_ - and was he out of his head, or what?

Meanwhile, Spock was waiting patiently.

Vulcan circumspection was a powerful thing – Just one more in a long list that Kirk simply didn't understand.

When another full minute passed and Jim still had neither spoken, nor chosen a place to sit, Spock suddenly spoke. He spoke quietly, calmly, but his voice seemed harsh as it abruptly broke the stillness: "Every seventh year of his adult life, a Vulcan male will temporarily go mad."

Jim gaped at him helplessly, not certain he could trust his ears – and when Spock moved toward the couch, and indicated a spot for Kirk to be seated, he complied without thinking.

Spock sat in the antique wooden chair. It seemed made to hold him.

Jim swallowed, and managed to speak. "Excuse me?"

Spock nodded. "Certainly," he said, evenly, although any human would have known to ignore the stop-gap question - and this therefore seemed somehow like deliberate Vulcan obtuseness.

Then, after a pause: "Every seventh year of his adult life, a Vulcan male will temporarily go mad." He lifted his elbows onto the arms of the chair, and interlinked his fingertips. "It is called _Pon Farr_, 'the Time of Mating'."

Jim wasn't feeling any less startled, and though he had been wondering only a couple of hours ago how he could possibly ask Spock about this very thing (apparently), he really was not prepared, at all, to actually hear about it. "Uh, Spock, no offense, but I thought you were going to tell me about Vulcan colonization methods."

"None taken," the Vulcan answered, levelly.

He glanced at his Captain's face – then his gaze became searching, lingering long enough to thoroughly examine Kirk's expression. His tone, when he spoke again, was gentle. "I assure you that this is pertinent," he said, "I certainly have no desire to mention it to you otherwise – It is a subject we do not discuss, even among ourselves."

"Oh! So you guys _don't _talk about sex!" And that felt like a victory - though it was, of course what they had all figured, all along.

It was Spock's turn to stare, though he was too well-trained to do it blatantly. "I beg your pardon?"

But when Jim gathered himself to repeat what he had said (with a little less ebullience this time), Spock deliberately stopped him. "You seem to be laboring under a misapprehension," he stated – and Jim saw a miniscule spark of amusement flare and die in dark Vulcan eyes. His voice was cool, then. "It is not sexuality which is distasteful to us, Captain. It is the madness: The emotionalism, the lack of control - the loss of logic."

"Oh, my God, Spock, you're not serious!"

Jim looked at his First Officer, who looked back at him with a very blank Vulcan face.

"You are!"

And, gaping at that somber visage - intimidating intelligence and strength of character written in its every line - Jim began to laugh.

He tried to stop laughing. He really did. But then he looked again at Spock, who was beginning to show the slightest signs of discomfort. And even as Jim started laughing again, Spock uttered fatal words: "I fail to see the humor in this situation."

The situation – and Jim's increasingly breathless hilarity - was not made any better by the words that followed: "This is a subject we take quite seriously."

By now Jim was howling, tears streaming down his cheeks. He had fallen over on the couch, helpless. Unfortunately, this meant that he had a very clear view of Spock's non-expression. He threw one arm hurriedly over his eyes to blot out that vision. Oh God. Oh, my God, he really needed to get a grip before Spock got irritated – but then he thought of Spock calmly reaching over to nerve pinch him or something, and he couldn't breathe for the renewed laughter that accompanied that mental image.

Spock stood and moved away, and Jim was so busy trying to catch his breath that he couldn't even wonder where the other had gone.

After another minute, Jim heard a very faint clink over in the alcove; and he supposed that, if he didn't get nerve-pinched first, or tossed out on his ear, he just might get that cup of tea after all.

Okay, okay, okay… Air in; air out.

Who knew somebody so inherently formidable would actually prove to be sort of a decent guy? Jim figured that anybody who laughed at _him_ like that (especially in the middle of an equivalently uncomfortable disclosure) would have had his lights go out mid-guffaw…

When Spock came back, a prone Kirk had reestablished some semblance of control. Spock was eying him a little doubtfully.

Jim looked up at the Vulcan and grinned. "Seriously, Spock: You are awesome. I mean it: Swear to God."

Solemnly, Spock reached out one hand. When Jim took it, the other pulled him effortlessly back up to a sitting position. "Thanks," Jim said, "I haven't laughed that hard in – oh, I don't know – forever. Give me a second: I think I got a stitch in my side."

Spock just nodded. He moved to sit very gravely in his carved chair.

Looking at him, Jim received a small jolt. A few days ago, he would have assumed that the Vulcan was pissed off. But he wasn't. Not at all. He was just… contained.

And, oddly, Jim had the impression that Spock didn't really mind the laughter. Maybe he just accepted that as part of what Jim needed, in the moment?

Vulcans were seriously bizarre. But Jim kinda liked them – or this one, anyway.

Since Spock was still here, going with it, Jim decided he might as well, too. "This 'madness' – You experience it every seven years, then?"

"In theory."

Silence, again.

Spock stood and moved toward the alcove. When he came back, he was carrying a small tray with a teapot, and a couple of delicate china cups on saucers. He placed the tray next to Jim on the table, and indicated the pot. "It will need to steep for three minutes," he said, in what amounted to a rare digression.

He sat, again, in the chair, and was silent for several seconds. When he spoke, it was obvious he was addressing Jim's last question. "I do not see that my personal experience is relevant to this discussion, Captain: I am not, currently, a Vulcan colonist."

The conversation went from humorously theoretical to painfully concrete, just like that.

All of a sudden, Jim better understood Spock's hesitation on the Bridge. For him, this was not just a history or culture lesson, or even an explanation of the personal significance of an unpleasant encounter – It was a question of the survival of a proud species.

Jim's heart hurt for him.

"Agreed."

But - although he hadn't actually meant 'you' as in 'you, personally, Spock' - he shouldn't let it go completely, should he?

No. Better to leave an opening: "But you are a Vulcan male. I suspect that that is a conversation that we should have sometime, all things considered – Don't you?"

"Perhaps."

It was as much of an admission as he was going to get, that much was plain. He was not going to push it, and run the risk of Spock shutting down completely. The man could be seriously stubborn. Jim nodded his acceptance of that reluctant acknowledgement.

"Okay, then." He glanced over at Spock, who was looking fixedly across the room. "So, uhm… Vulcan males experience this madness every seven years of their adult life?"

Spock's eyes shifted toward him just for a second. Apparently Jim's seriousness was satisfactory, because Spock spoke: "A temporary madness, only." His elbows were back up on the arms of the chair. "It is alleviated by the act of mating, or by death."

Jim knew he couldn't say any of the things that sprang immediately to mind. He double-checked, just in case.

Nope.

He reached back to yesterday's conversation, to find something appropriate to say. "But you – Vulcans – are paired off as children, so that's okay, right? I mean, you can go along, knowing that it's going to be fine…"

"That is the purpose of the childhood bond, yes." Spock seemed relieved as the discussion turned from the potentially personal to the clearly hypothetical. "However, difficulties remain. Unless the pair are raised in close proximity, the two can be virtual strangers, even at the onset of the Time."

Jim's vague queasiness was back. It was not improved by Spock's next matter-of-fact observation. "You will imagine that this could increase the likelihood of serious injury."

Jim drew breath to comment – protest – but Spock forestalled him. "Thus, you will see, there are – were - implications for off-world travel. Even during the height of the Vulcan exploratory and colonization period, only a successfully mated pair could be sent into Space for a period of time greater than six years. Further, in such cases, specific medical arrangements would be required for injuries likely to be incurred, as well as provisions for the delivery and care of any resultant offspring."

In the ensuing silence, Spock sat for some time, unmoving; then stood, and paced his familiar three steps away.

He stood motionless then turned with an unreadable face. "I am afraid I am explaining this badly," he said.


	13. Interlude for Tea

_Interlude for Tea_

Since what Spock had just described sounded scary – and wrong - as hell, Jim kinda had to agree. He didn't think he should say that, though, so he just didn't say anything.

After a second, Spock came back over and sat, again, in his own chair. Reaching toward the tray, he poured two cups of tea. When he had replaced the pot, he picked up one of the cups, with its saucer, and handed it to Jim.

He took up the other cup. He lifted it. His eyes closed for a second, and Jim thought maybe he was smelling the steam.

Jim raised his own, and, sniffing, found that the scent was very faint – weaker than he would have expected. He looked over - Spock's eyes were on him.

"Do not worry," the Vulcan said, equably, "It is Terran."

It struck Jim forcefully that that was a pretty telling thing for a Vulcan to say. Pretty awful, actually. Especially since Spock was clearly trying to be kind, and put him at ease.

Was that really the automatic Human reaction to all things Vulcan: _Fear_?

Jim started to be pissed, a little, at that – but then he wasn't sure whether he was pissed at the easy Vulcan assumption – or at the implied Human reaction (which he suspected Spock was actually right about, by the way (ugly as that was)) – or at himself for being an embodiment of the whole problem.

Maybe he was just pissed at his own reaction to the comment.

Was he pissed _at_ Spock – or _for_ him?

And what's with calling it 'Terran', anyway?

Now Jim ruefully realized that he was just clutching at straws to not have to think about the Fear thing. Or maybe he was thinking about the Fear thing so he wouldn't have to think about the Mating thing.

'Either, which', as one of his childhood friends had often said.

Maybe he should just fucking grow up.

He had a sip of the tea. It was good. He had a second sip, and glanced at Spock - just as Spock looked away.

Spock slowly took a sip of his tea, his eyes closing as he did.

Jim wondered at that. He had never paid attention to that before – But it appeared to be a habit, or a reaction, maybe. By and large, Spock didn't blink much, compared to other people – and here he'd just closed his eyes, more than a blink, two times in about as many minutes…

Jim kinda found that fascinating.


	14. Nor William Blake, Neither

_Nor William Blake, Neither_

The translucent porcelain saucer looked impossibly fragile, resting on Spock's outstretched palm.

His powerful fingers folded in to grasp the tiny handle of the delicate cup. Watching him serenely raise that teacup to take another sip - in a ritual as old, probably, as any remaining of either Earth or Vulcan - it struck Jim that this was a snapshot illustration of the dichotomy of the man.

As a metaphor, it seemed it should mean something.

'Geez, Jim,' his brain snorted, ruining yet another moment that seemed, somehow, to promise insight if he were only patient and diligent enough, 'Metaphors? Who do you think you are now – William freaking Wordsworth? Stick to what you know.'

Knowing himself to be no poet, Jim hastily took a deep drink of the tea. He might have gulped. There was an ugly clack as he put his teacup back on its saucer.

Spock returned his own cup to his saucer, then, and soundlessly replaced the two on the table. The motion was very slow and his long pale alien hand seemed to hover forever. Then it was retracted, and settled in, folded with its twin.

Jim looked up from those hands to see Spock watching him.


	15. No Longer

_No Longer_

Feeling the weight of that wise black gaze heavy upon him - ageless and oddly alien-seeming, all of a sudden, in the heat and dimness - Kirk felt his stomach start to tighten - and he suddenly felt disgusted with the whole damned thing.

He was tired of being frightened by a person who, he suspected, knew exactly how he was feeling, felt nothing of the kind in return, and, worst of all, probably – no, make that _definitely_ – didn't deserve it in the first place.

The very first time he had seen this man who would, unbeknownst to either of them, play such a part in his future, he had been defensive, apprehensive, aware that his fate hung in the balance – and he'd felt that way, pretty much (off and on), ever since.

Was that really Spock's fault?

Well - except for the whole whoop-ass-and-strangle thing, and throwing him off the ship (both suitable subjects for a whole 'nother discussion, thank you very much) – not really, no.

And, really? Not even then.

Thinking about it, Jim Kirk pretty much felt like shit.

Looking over at his First Officer, Captain Kirk found fathomless dark eyes still observing him.

"Frankly," Jim said, "Scares the crap out of me, just hearing about it."

Spock eyed him appraisingly.

"I mean that figuratively, of course," Jim said.

Spock nodded.

He looked down at the tea tray.

"Even we find these conditions to be less than satisfactory," he observed, "However, it is a biological imperative over which we have no control."

He reached out and picked up his teacup; and, once again balancing the saucer on his palm, took a small sip of that weak-seeming Terran tea.

He glanced over at Jim, only for an instant, before his eyes focused somewhere in front of him. "I assure you that we have, as a species, made attempts to combat the madness." His mild voice was musing. "Although, I suppose it is just as well that we have not proven successful in that endeavor. We are now, by-and-large, creatures of intellect – and it is possible that, without that compulsion, our numbers could have, with time, diminished through neglect as much as they have, now, through other means."

He took another sip.

Looking at him, at the strength and power in that long-limbed form, Jim thought, for a second, 'Yeah, _right_.'

He had seen Uhura kissing Spock, once, in the midst of disaster – and Spock had certainly kissed her back.

And subsequently, he had seen the way she looked at him, when she thought no one would see: That had to be in response to something, right?

This evening she'd gone to him, reached for him, gazed into his eyes…

Jim remembered, then, that Spock was actually half-human. How different did that make him from others of his kind?

It occurred to Jim that, in fact, there _were_ no 'others of his kind'. Spock was unique. For all that he thought of himself as Vulcan; for all that he identified with - thought like, acted like - the people of that world; for all that his body was dominated by steadfast Vulcan genes; there was, still, something essentially _different_ about him.

In personal philosophy, Jim decided, if nothing else…

Jim wondered if he would ever know where the Vulcan Spock left off, and the rest of him began.

No. Probably not. Spock was really, unabashedly stubborn. (And _that_ little after-thought made Jim smile.)

Spock was looking at him, over his delicate teacup, and his eyebrow was rising.

Jim started to grin. He thought that, Vulcan or no, his First Officer was totally unique.

"I am sure you guys would have figured it out before allowing yourselves to disappear completely," Jim said, and he tried to keep the amusement in his voice to a minimum.

"No doubt you are correct," Spock replied, his tone very sedate.

"We did manage to save ourselves from extinction once before."

He put his cup-and-saucer down, and raised the teapot. His slight gesture was a question, and Jim shook his head: 'No, thanks.' Spock poured a second cupful for himself, and set the pot on the tray once more; he didn't lift his cup.

"We nearly destroyed ourselves with furious brutality and blood-lust." Spock's smooth voice and serene face contrasted sharply, jarringly, with the words Kirk was hearing. The Vulcan was looking toward the opposite wall, and he appeared to be gazing far into his homeworld's distant past. "Our great plain ran green with what was spilled there."

"Only Surak, with his message of peace, brought us back from the brink of disaster. It was very nearly too late, and the result was total upheaval and restructuring of everything that we were."

His chin moved toward Jim just for a second - too briefly, even, for his eyes to follow in their usual slow slide. "I had thought to say 'What we became is what we are now.'"

His eyelids dropped, for a second, before those eyes were sent away. "But, clearly, that is no longer true."

He picked up his cup, then, and his fingers curled again on that delicate handle. "Soon we will no longer be 'Vulcans' at all. For surely we must change – and there is no logic in retaining the name for a people from a place non-existent."

He blinked; then coolly took a tiny sip from his steaming cup of tea.

Jim just watched as Spock slowly drank that entire cup. Once more he had a vague feeling in the pit of his stomach, but it just seemed like too much work to analyze what it was, and he didn't really want to take the time. Instead, he focused on the impassive intelligent face of his First Officer.

He tried to understand how someone who obviously had a deep understanding of what faced his people in the wake of their near annihilation – who could express it in such a way – could sit so, and drink tea.

If it were _him_ -

What?

If it were him _what_?

Jim felt again the reeling aftermath of his mind-meld with the other Spock - and gazed upon his own, sitting so unmoving.

How could anyone live with such pain?

_Fuck._

It was impossible.

"So what now?" Jim didn't realize he had said the words aloud until Spock's eyes shifted, and the Vulcan looked over at him.

"I do not know." Spock said, and his voice held a deep something that told Jim more than its owner, perhaps, intended. He took a last sip of his tea, and put the cup and saucer down. He parked his elbows on the arms of the chair and interlaced his fingers. He leaned forward, slightly, and moved one foot a little. He seemed, for a moment, to be studying his boots.

"There are so few of us left."

Jim was suddenly reminded that the guy was barely a year older than he was, himself. He had a tendency to forget that.

Spock was silent for another minute, before sitting back in that intricate Vulcan-made chair.

He gathered Jim's attention with a glance.

"At the time of its destruction, our planet had some six billion inhabitants, a number representing approximately a fifth of those who had dwelled there in the course of recorded history.

"We had had practical spaceflight capability for more than three thousand years.

"Our primary interest was always in accumulation of knowledge. Due to various biological constraints, generation and sleeper ships were quickly deemed inadequate, and we developed warp technology almost immediately. Our brief period of expansion was intense and violent; however, we soon discovered that Vulcans are not well suited for a life off-world. We abandoned any interest in long-term colonization and withdrew, again, almost completely, to our home planet.

"The sole outpost remaining was a monastery, where, separated from the rest of our kind, postulants lived in severe privation.

"The return of those who had left, and the uneasy addition of their progeny to the already unstable sociopsychological climate, triggered the final warfare that almost destroyed us.

"In the after-time, as Surak's teachings took hold, we decided, as a species, to reinvent who we were. It was not easy, and many were lost as we struggled to free ourselves from the passions that we had formerly embraced. But, in the end, logic won."

His gaze had shifted, as he spoke, but now he caught Jim's eye.

"Now?" Spock shook his head, in that tiny negative. "Logic is, essentially, all that we have left. Everything else – everything that made us truly Vulcan, and not some other sort of creature – is gone. We will assuredly try to rebuild our numbers, preserve the remnants of our culture.

"But, in a way no outworlder will ever be able to understand, its heart – our heart - is gone forever.

"Vulcan is dead."

That cool calm Vulcan voice made the word 'dead' sound very final, indeed.

Spock stood then, slowly unfolding himself from the chair, and moved away. It seemed to Jim that he was calling on his years of training to move so slowly, with such perfect control.

And Jim said nothing.

There was nothing to say.


	16. Matter and AntiMatter

_Matter and Anti-Matter_

Just for a minute, Jim wished that that perfect Vulcan control would shatter, and Spock would – could – do something to alleviate the tension that Jim saw, now, as his constant companion. It must be excruciating, Jim thought.

That impassive Vulcan façade was so complete that most of the time you would have no idea there was anything behind it but cool calculation.

And the whole time, Spock was living with _this_.

He felt like he'd had a glimpse into someone else's own private hell. Bad enough some random someone else - but Spock? He was so private, always…

But maybe that was why Jim was here. Maybe that was why they were having this conversation. Maybe it just was plain _time_ for someone else to know.

Oh, wait.

Jim was here - and they were having this conversation - because Jim had butted in.

Right.

He sighed, then climbed to his feet.

Once on his feet, though, he wasn't sure what to do. Spock was not asking for pity – and the friendly hug that was his go-to default just wasn't going to cut it. (If Jim tried it - his brain began to whisper - it might help, though: Kicking his ass would, at least, give Spock something else to think about.) Jim ignored his own discomfort, and focused, instead, on Spock.

The Vulcan seemed so alone, Jim thought. So solitary; apart…

Given what Spock had already told him, what could possibly constitute 'severe privation'?

His eyes drifted from that straight back, around the silent, shadowy room. He saw again the red-draped walls, the works of art, the artifacts and objects representing what was, if Spock's assessment was correct (and who was he kidding? How often was the man wrong?) an ancient culture on the brink of inescapable change - if not extinction.

This was like a little slice of Vulcan life, maybe - a second 'last outpost.'

"I have no desire to live in a shrine," the voice was low, and inflectionless.

He looked up, and saw that Spock was studying him. It was disconcerting to find that Spock had, once again, followed every thought in his head, as though Jim had given a running commentary.

"Similar objects – or ones, at least, of similar cultural significance – can be found in the Vulcan Embassy on Earth. In all probability they will be transferred to the Colony, once it has been firmly established. I suspect that many of these items will, as well, in time." Spock's eyes were roaming over the room, too, his face as expressionless as ever.

Jim was listening to the man talk, and it took him a moment – as usual, it would appear – to really hear what he was saying. It was a classic Catch-22, wasn't it? Presumably these were objects that, when they held much less momentous weight, Spock had chosen to keep with him for their beauty, their purpose, their personal significance. In a way, to remind him, then, of what he was, and where he came from…

So they'd surely be valuable to a people who had lost nearly everything.

But, if he gave them away, then what did that leave him?

It was exactly what he had said: Logic. Pointy ears, maybe, green blood – and logic. Without all this stuff – of which there was very little, really - that was what Spock would have left that defined him as Vulcan.

Yet, as another William would have it, 'Manners makyth man.' So maybe the stuff didn't really matter.

Well,_ duh. _

But it did.

Looking at Spock standing so still in his still, shadowed, austere quarters, Jim felt himself growing defensive on his friend's behalf – angry.

It did matter.

It mattered enough to make Jim's stomach hurt.

Surely it mattered to Spock? Not in his head maybe, but in his heart?

Ah, but that was what the Logic bit was all about, wasn't it?

Once again Jim decided that it must really, really, _really_ suck to be Vulcan.

He smiled, walked over, looked Spock square in the eyes. Those unblinking brown ones, almost black in the dimness, searched his face; and he had to smile again. He grasped Spock's elbow, shook it the smallest bit.

"Maybe, just for a while, you could consider this a one-man Vulcan colony, huh? Surely, way out here, no one would fault you for that…"

Jim dropped his hand, and Spock nodded that single small nod so familiar by now.

Then his eyebrow rose, sharply. "Given that the alternatives would appear to be 'monastery,' 'exile,' or 'embassy,' I find 'colony' to be a reasonable – and pleasing – metaphorical description of the current situation." Jim imagined that one lean shoulder lifted the tiniest amount. "As an 'embassy' I have, perhaps, been less than entirely successful."

Jim wanted to disagree – he, himself, was incontrovertible proof of that - but now didn't seem the right time.

There was a pause, then, that was clearly for effect - and there was a glint in Spock's eye which belied the flat tone. "The other two, are, of course, completely unacceptable." His eyes flicked to Jim's. "I am sure you would agree, Captain."

Jim laughed. "Yes, I can see that, Mr. Spock." He was delighted, truly. "Completely." He forced his face into a frown, and shook his head. "Unacceptable."

He was beyond glad to see that miniscule hint of humour so deliberately, pointedly, applied. It just seemed so… Spock. His grin couldn't be repressed. "Definitely."

Spock nodded.

"Just so. Also, bearing in mind historical precedent, 'colony' is not so far wrong." He appeared to be thinking. "However, it is true, as I stated before, that we have always preferred exploration and concomitant accumulation of knowledge to actual colonization - at least in the form you know." He considered.

"And the same, it would seem, is true for me."

His eyebrow gave a barely detectable twitch. Spock looked up. "Perhaps, it is simply enough to say that I am a Vulcan scientist."


	17. Of Ships and Sheep, Once More

_Of Ships and Sheep, Once More_

The much-celebrated Chief Science Officer of the _Enterprise_ remained still for a minute longer, before his shoulder tightened again in his almost imperceptible shrug: Captain Kirk prepared himself for an apparent change in topic.

"Vulcan scientists have often gone into Space by ones or twos; more often than not, in fact.

"In general, we have taken with us only what we must."

Commander Spock's eyes travelled over the room once more, and were solemn as they sought Kirk's. He seemed a little reluctant to voice his next words: "Captain, I am not sure whether you can grasp how truly different our approach has been to that of the explorers proceeding from your own world. In nearly every respect, it has been… not just different, but almost diametrically opposed."

He was more direct: "Please understand that I wish to state, here, only facts. I am not desirous of passing judgment upon your people, nor upon my own: In our individual manners, we each make the decisions that seem to us to be worthy, needful – even logical. It is simple fact that - just as a Vulcan is not a Human - what a Vulcan would choose to carry with him for a journey from his homeworld into Space must be different from that which a Human would choose."

Jim met the other's level gaze. The look Spock was giving him was a well-known one: Once upon a time - when they had first begun to work together – the Captain had disliked it mightily. He had thought of it as the Vulcan's 'Are you understanding this, you imbecile, or do I have to use smaller words?' look. In time, Jim had decided that it was unlikely that Spock would ever think, much less say, 'imbecile' - and he could follow the other more easily, more often.

He now could reassure the Science Officer without resentment, "I'm with you so far, Mr. Spock. Just say what you need to - I'll try not to take offense."

It felt good to say those words aloud, at last – and truly mean them. He grinned, just a little – a relieved sort of a grin.

Spock nodded his small single nod.

"I have said that we would take with us only what we must.

"This is true. But 'what we must' covers something different for us, than it would for you."

He paused, his expression typically serious. It did not change, but Jim nevertheless thought he looked vaguely uncertain, as he considered how to proceed.

There was a tiny silence after Spock had obviously decided what he might say… Jim's brain interpreted it as that peculiar Vulcan not-a-sigh.

Spock folded his hands together, the first two fingers forming a bridge. The Captain had seen him do this countless times. Jim thought of the gesture as characteristically Vulcan.

"Vulcan ships were fast, maneuverable, efficient. Small and lightweight, they could land readily on uneven ground, and be concealed comparatively easily. They were outfitted for maximum flexibility of scientific research, exploration, and accumulation of data. Such essential equipment was given priority over everything else, other than that which was absolutely necessary to ensure the safe return of the traveler."

Jim considered that for a second.

'Safe return', not 'comfort' – not 'happiness', nor even 'contentment'.

His mind started to wander off… to contemplate what might be encompassed in 'specific medical arrangements' required for injuries sustained by hardy Vulcan couples in minute comfortless vessels… but he reined it in sharply before it went too far down that road.

He remembered Spock's apparent surprise at the 'non-essentials,' even luxuries, carried by Human space-faring ships. Maybe a little levity was in order: "So, uhm… No sheep for you guys?" Jim asked. He suspected Spock would forgive him – and it bought them both a little more time.

"No," Spock said evenly, "No sheep."

He shook his head slightly, and shot one of his swift indecipherable glances at Jim. His tone was thoughtful when he repeated, "No, no sheep."

He looked down at the strong hands still folded in front of him. Perhaps, Jim thought, studying the other's grave face, the gesture wasn't characteristically Vulcan – perhaps it was simply uniquely Spock?

Spock spoke again: "Nor sha'milar, neither." His low voice told Jim nothing.

'_Sha'milar'?_ It had to be a Vulcan word, one Jim had never heard before.

For a long, motionless moment the Vulcan stood quietly, before those pale hands unfolded, to be clasped, instead, behind his very straight back.

Here, now, were those few long, deliberate paces…

Kirk was suddenly aware of the hush of Spock's quarters, and he felt that slightly off-kilter feeling he got when they approached any subject that seemed too personal to his First Officer. He knew Spock could hold his own in any conversation – oh, how he knew that! – but he also knew how protective the other could be about anything remotely related to Vulcan culture or philosophy, or his own individual privacy. The man wasn't ugly about it: He just shut down any discussion point-blank, when he decided it had gone far enough.

Intrusive curiosity was all-too-common, now, and would not be tolerated.

And Kirk had seen Spock's lips form a grim line, just for an instant, before the other spoke that word…

So, "Shah-meelahr?" Jim asked, very tentatively, trying to copy his friend's intonation.

Spock's step hesitated, and he glanced back at Jim, one eyebrow lifted at Jim's attempt. He froze mid-motion for a fleeting instant, as though to consider; then, his foot continued its slow descent. His chin started to lower in his typical affirmative; then, instead, "Vulcan sheep," he offered, tossing the words back over his shoulder, his voice an unmistakable imitation of Jim's own.

Jim supposed he gawped. His brain was just winding up again to give him its usual confusing and argumentative analysis, when he realized that Spock had, in fact, delivered requested information; but had intended, with such delivery, another tiny hint of comic relief in a topic that was, obviously, intensely painful for a reason of which Jim was not yet aware.

Jim nodded his comprehension.

Well.

No matter how it was pronounced,_ sha'milar_ was 'Vulcan sheep.'


	18. The Basic Difference

_The Basic Difference_

No _sha'milar_ for colonists from Vulcan, Jim thought - Corn and sheep aplenty for his own.

Once again, Jim Kirk found his mind chasing after a glimpse of something profound: Another elusive metaphor that promised – threatened – to alter his perception of the way things not only were, but possibly should be.

Or not.

No time, now, for earth-shattering paradigm shifts. (Sometimes he felt he was barely holding on, as it was…)

Was he really so blind, he wondered – so willfully ignorant?

He breathed in scented air.

What, on the _Enterprise – _besides the ship herself _- _could her Captain say was strictly essential for their five-year-mission? Air, water, food? Fuel, repair equipment? Basic medical supplies?

Did that really mean that everything else was _not_?

And what about those early Vulcan explorers? What kind of a man could willingly choose to go out by himself, or with only one other kindred soul, into Space - for years, maybe, at a time? What _would_ they take with them? What were the few things they would not be able to live without?

In the days before Surak, would their choices have been different?

He had only met a few Vulcans besides Spock – and the other Spock. Sarek, the few remaining Elders – He hadn't really seen them at their best. (And vice versa, of course.) What did they make of this spacious ship – teeming with life, but with room to spare - her cargo holds filled, even then, with not just necessary things, essential things, but comforts of home?

He had only seen one ship of Vulcan design. It was miniscule. He tried to imagine his own Spock journeying on that ship; working, living - alone, or with a wife. (Uhura? What would she make of that?)

Spock was right. There was no way he could imagine how different it must have been.


	19. The Silence of Space

_The Silence of Space_

Jim Kirk was acutely aware of the quiet in Spock's half-lit quarters. Only, now, it struck him, somehow, as vaguely uneasy rather than uncanny.

When he glanced over, Spock was standing motionless, turned away a little. His hands were loose at his sides, and he did not look like the perfectly contained expert-in-everything he appeared to be in the Briefing Room, or on the Bridge.

No, he kinda looked like an average guy, trying to figure out how to explain something difficult to somebody he wasn't quite sure was going to get it.

Giving him a little time - a little space - Jim wandered over and dropped onto the couch. He could afford to be patient – Heaven knows, Spock had been patient with him, plenty of times. He casually propped his feet up on the low table, and waited for the other to continue.

Jim wasn't going anywhere: He hoped Spock would understand the unspoken invitation to take the time he needed…

Spock hadn't been looking at anything in particular. His eyes idly followed Jim's movement; as the latter tucked his hands behind his head, the Vulcan's gaze sharpened for a second. Then that focus relaxed; and once again, his thought was almost palpable.

Jim smiled to himself: Spock understood.

Having taken time for thought, Spock seemed to gather himself. Jim imagined he could see him wrapping himself in serenity - breathing it in.

Having gathered himself, Spock became, once more, that familiar cool, logical, enigmatic being who lectured on the Bridge, and in the Briefing Room. When he spoke - slowly and deliberately - his tone was decidedly impersonal.

Jim figured it probably was just easier that way.

* * *

"As I stated previously," Spock noted, "Vulcan scientists carried little equipment: Only that which was necessary for the mission at hand, and anything else deemed absolutely essential. They did not convey non-essentials, nor yet luxuries, as did the people of Earth.

"Once they disembarked on a planet to be studied, they survived with minimal supplies. They ate what they could locate in the environment in which they found themselves, doing their best to exist in the same manner as any indigenous sapient lifeforms would do.

"Disciplined, and practiced in self-denial, Vulcans were used to want – In service of knowledge, this was not considered a hardship. They had work to do, and they did it efficiently, bearing in mind that they would return home soon."

He glanced at Kirk, for a second; but though their eyes met, that level glance revealed nothing: Spock was simply making sure he was not wasting breath - The Human was listening.

Jim took in the straight spine; the level shoulders; the proud, disciplined face with its cool, remote expression. He could almost feel the distance widening between them.

"The Human concept of 'add and adapt' would have been alien to Vulcan explorers. They were Vulcan, and would remain so. In the meantime, whilst they were away from home, they would do what they must to survive: Survival was of paramount importance so that their findings could be reported to the homeworld."

Spock's voice, also, was cool, remote – perfectly level in the room's eerie hush.

"The Vulcan ethos was of import, of course, in the founding of the Federation, and – though I am the first (and, likely, the last) of our people to serve within its ranks – in the establishment of Starfleet. The Prime Directive is a Vulcan imperative: Vulcan scientists have always endeavored to leave no trace behind in their explorations - no anomalies, no contaminations, no artifacts; no interference. No mysteries."

Huh, Jim's brain sniffed... As opposed to humans?

The old Jim - the two-days-ago Jim, even - would have hated this aloof arrogant creature.

"The end result is that, whereas Humans, and the plant and animal life forms of Earth that accompanied them in their travels, are spread across the Orion Spur - more populous now than at any point in their past - the Vulcan people, and the lifeforms of our planet, are all but extinct."

Mr. Spock was silent for a moment, unmoving.

"Take, for example," he said coolly, "_sha'milar_.

"As I am sure you have realized, Captain Kirk, Vulcans have long memories. We are a people of deeply held tradition, and we value connections with our past. This is but one reason why we chose to abandon off-world efforts – However, it is an important one."

Black eyes cut toward Jim, just for an instant.

"Given that our Adepts are all gone - that the mental mastery we have achieved must undergo change in the face of that fact – the loss of a few sheep may seem, to you, insignificant.

"But to us it is not.

"We honored their contributions to our way of life: The wool of this animal was highly prized, and its use was an indication of status. The traditional garments used for meditation by the Adepts was made of it, as were those of individuals who had achieved a certain level of accomplishment.

"My own, in fact - though I rarely wear them, now - are made of this substance."

Listening attentively to the other's words, Jim discovered he was surprisingly grateful for that chill tone.

Spock's chin lifted by the smallest fraction of an inch - emphasizing, rather than breaking - that determined, invulnerable, inhuman stillness.

"Now, the _sha'milar_ are gone - The weavers, the seamstresses, the embroiderers; their teachers. Add to this the other artisans associated with Gol – the stonemasons, the sculptors, all who laboured so that the minds of the Masters could be freed… the Adepts, of course: An entire tradition, one of the bases of our culture was - except for its impact in shaping the viewpoint of the survivors - all for naught.

"The same is, in essence, true for all of our art forms, our accumulated knowledge, our accomplishments. Millennia of effort -Wiped out with the muffled hush of our planet imploding."

The calm words seemed to hang in the air forever, before fading into nonexistence. The silence, then, was complete, like that of Space itself; the Vulcan was as cold, as remote, as ageless and preternaturally still.

How was such complete composure possible?

At some point, as Spock spoke, Jim had been drawn to his feet, as though caught in the strong pull of the other's inexorable gravity. He now turned his head, and looked into those distant eyes, for a moment – and before they could focus upon him fully, tore his gaze hastily away from their grave black limitless depths…

Vulcan equanimity: Life, and strength, and hard-earned peace, inextricably entwined.

So much sacrifice for Peace.

Jim thought of his Academy lessons in Vulcan history: Required study of the unparalleled peacemakers and diplomats of the Federation, and their methods. A careful and curious reader could almost glimpse something hidden in the cold black-and-white. At the time, Jim had wondered… Now he knew there was passion there, subsumed in unstinting respect for Life, and desire for Peace.

And that was Before… Before all Life - for all of those who had been there, and survived - for those who had shared, in some measure, that common experience – had seemed to become infinitely more precious.

He thought of the last vision he had had of a deliberately defenseless red-and-gold planet – in the instant before it was swallowed up into black nothingness – and the last lingering sight of his own, receding, as the _Enterprise_ embarked on the journey that would carry them all - how far? He hardly knew.

Even now (though he had never thought he valued it, particularly) the mental image of the brilliant blue and green sphere of Earth - with its gentle white striated mottling, familiar background of stars and moon and Starbase One, the web of lights that appeared as the bright turned into dark - nurtured him, sustained him, buoyed him, as the light-years unwound in the Ship's invisible wake…

He would always carry 'Home' with him - It was in his heart, in his very breath. (He had heard Nyota Uhura describe it that way, once – and now he was sure he knew what she meant.)

The thought of losing that was… incomprehensible.

So, instead, Jim began to think of littler things he valued from home. Never mind the big things, natural or even man-made: The Library of Congress, the British Museum, the Great Wall – or smaller, but equally important things: The Sistine Chapel, the Statue of Liberty, the actual hand-signed UFP Constitution…

Honestly, it was simply too hard to even think about those treasures being lost.

But what about the little things? The tiny things from home?

Corn and sheep.

He thought back through his day yesterday, the one before that, the one before that. He realized that, once again, Spock was right – Just like the sheep they'd taken to du Bois, this ship carried things that were never meant to leave Earth. Pine trees? Roses? Herbs of all kinds? No, they weren't necessary here – 'strictly' or otherwise. But here they were nevertheless. And Jim was very, very glad those things had made it.

No, he couldn't imagine losing one single tree, much less a forest – Khimki, was it, that Chekov cherished? – a snow-capped mountain, an azure sea…

And the biggest thing?

Huh.

How ironic. His own civilization's most enlightened people could spend years arguing passionately over its greatest treasure, and never come to a consensus.

But the Vulcans had. They had sacrificed so much in service to what was truly important to them. And, in the end, for what?

_No._ Too much pain, there.

He glanced at Spock, a fleeting glance: All he could spare. He took in that cool remote non-expression - and steadied himself, listening to his own heartbeat, his own breath…

Air in; air out.

His own culture's heart, now? What would that be?

As one Human man - a lone resident of Earth - he had no idea. But he knew what it would be if he were Vulcan.

If he were Vulcan?

Gone.


	20. At Heart

_At Heart_

Jim glanced again at Spock.

(Too silent, maybe. Too still. (What had the man been like, Before?))

His stomach roiled; and he sought for the right thing - for _some _thing - to say.

He wanted to say how sorry he was - how very, very sorry. He wanted say that he was sad for him - that he understood - that he felt bad for things that had been said to him; how he had been treated; the losses, (oh, God) the unimaginable losses he had suffered.

Jim listened to his own breathing, and tried to imagine how Spock could continue doing it day after day after day.

He struggled to find words to express even one of the jumbled mixture of things he was feeling - But once more, as seemed to happen all-too-often, he was speechless in the face of cool Vulcan equanimity.

Only… Now, he was becoming aware of how much was encompassed in that word.

He thought he might be sick.


	21. Grim Reflections

_Grim Reflections_

Standing in Spock's otherwise pristine gleaming bathroom - his chest heaving as he struggled for air, and for self-control - Jim Kirk forced his mind to focus firmly on his breathing - and stay there.

He was aware that Vulcan ears had probably heard every echoing sound of his stomach violently rebelling.

He ran cool water and raised a palmful to his lips; splashed another on his face.

He distracted himself from the ghastly wide-eyed apparition in the mirror by leaning, for a moment, against the sink and looking around. It was just another Starfleet bathroom - familiar, ordinary: A mirror image of his own. This one was neater, certainly; and on the little edged shelf there were two glasses, two toothbrushes, two containers of toothpaste. Hanging by the shower, there were two sets of towels.

He stuck his hand abruptly into the cold stream of water, and drank, deeply, again.

Spock was Vulcan - but who could blame him for trying to find a little comfort - a little happiness, even - in the company of such a beautiful woman?

Ah, God. He took one last sip, and ran his damp fingers through his hair - This was as good as it was gonna get. He met his own shadowed, bruised-looking, eyes in the mirror; and wondered whether they would be too revealing when he left this small room.

What could a Vulcan know - Kirk had questioned, sometimes, in annoyance or self-justification - of sorrow, regret, remorse?

Now he doubted whether, forced to do so, he could ever satisfactorily explain his own.

He allowed himself one huge sigh, and a moment's pause, before he straightened his tunic and stepped toward the door.


	22. Siege Weaponry

_Siege Weaponry_

Spock was not waiting outside the door for him to emerge, as Kirk had half-expected. There was no need to steel himself immediately against that penetrating, unreadable, laser-like gaze. He breathed another tiny sigh at the respite that that bought him – and wondered what he had really expected.

It was dawning on him that Spock's distance was deliberate.

Huh.

Maybe this was just another aspect of Vulcan protectiveness.

If the truth were told, Jim was forced to admit, Spock was more understanding than he generally allowed the others to believe. And, here, especially, he allowed his Captain a certain added measure of grace.

Well. It would be their secret.

Wincing a little, Kirk closed his eyes against the room's dimness after the comparative brilliance and near-surgical sterility of Spock's painfully gleaming bathroom - and he breathed in the subdued spicy scent that seemed almost familiar, now - even comforting.

Odd, to feel at home here.

Before opening his eyes, he permitted himself one last pensive reflection: Would it be like this, now? Was the empathy he felt so unexpectedly for Spock a variation of that 'common adversity' that bound together, so tightly, the members of his crew?

(Time would tell, he wryly concluded – assuming, of course, they were given enough of it.)

He opened his eyes.

Spock was not waiting.

Well, perhaps he was, but he was not looming outside the bathroom door.

He was seated in his carved wooden chair, apparently deep in thought - his dark head bent. He looked up as Jim moved toward him, then slowly rose to his feet. He didn't say anything – Jim had expected, maybe, some cool clinical observation on the weaknesses of human anatomy – and his eyes were gentle, as they rested on his Captain's face.

Jim gave the other a wan smile before he walked over, plopped himself onto the couch, and let out a heartfelt sigh.

His mind didn't dwell long on the thought, but it did allow the drifting idea that no topic was truly safe now: Nothing would be the same. He would be aware, always, of layers beneath what Spock said…

Still Spock said nothing. He sank back into his own chair, and Jim thought maybe he was deliberating – but there was none of the intent purposeful gravity about him that, as a rule, made his very presence so compelling. The Vulcan fires were damped.

Jim considered apologizing, or something; but, instead, he sighed again.

Spock's eyes slid to him, just for an instant. Then he turned toward the tea tray. Leaning a little, and reaching out a long, lean, blue-clad arm, he poured tea into one of the waiting cups. He lifted it, and moved it toward Jim, just by the smallest amount. It was an offer; Jim realized the Vulcan was being very careful to not infringe upon the Captain's personal space. Jim raised his eyes to Spock's, a little surprised; the other's did not waver. Still, they were quiet, non-invasive – peaceful. The proffered teacup moved another centimeter toward him, two, then halted; and Spock's voice said softly, evenly, "This should help."

Nodding in acknowledgement, Kirk took the cup; and, balancing the saucer on his palm, raised the delicate porcelain teacup to his lips. He took a little sip of the pale green-flecked liquid, breathing in the fragrant steam. It was different that what Spock had given him before, but just as good. It was warm, strong - soothing. The flavor was a bit complex: Spicy, not unduly so; almost muted – Analyzing it was a tiny distraction all its own.

He nodded his appreciation, and took another sip.

Jim leaned back into the couch, watching as Spock poured a cup for himself, and lifted it.

Ah, there it was again: His black lashes dropped to his cheeks for a second, as his eyes closed. The Vulcan took a single, small, deliberate sip.

"_Does_ it help?" Jim hadn't meant to say the words out loud. They just slipped out, as he gazed at his First Officer's face.

Those pale eyelids opened, and Spock turned his head to glance at Jim. He blinked, and looked away. "Sometimes," he said. Then he slowly, slowly, took another taste.

There was a tiny silence. Then he carefully put the cup-and-saucer down. He looked over, and met Jim's eyes. "Yes," he said, gently, "Sometimes it helps."

Jim nodded. He raised his own cup, and took a sip. Then, after a moment, another. He let his eyes drift around Spock's serene, shadowed quarters, then, eventually, back to Spock's perfectly composed face.

He took another careful sip of tea.

* * *

Jim Kirk drank tea, and gazed at his Vulcan First Officer. He found himself searching that steadfast face for clues to the other's thoughts.

Spock said nothing. He had collected his cup, again; now he calmly sipped his tea, looking down to where the cup rested on its saucer, in between sips.

He had to know Jim was watching him, the latter thought, but he was not protesting, nor objecting – he was simply accepting. Observing him, Jim's mind leapt for another metaphor, this time landing squarely on the mark: Spock had retreated, again, behind the self-possessed walls of Vulcan fortitude; but had left the door open - just enough for Jim to slip through - if the human were willing to enterprise.

Jim knew himself too weak to venture and follow that lead: He was a guerilla fighter, expert in surprise attacks - not a defender with chivalrous emprise, a noble keeper of guarded positions, a knightly protector donning cool impenetrable armor…

He sighed an abrupt, gusty sigh.

Metaphors were _so_ not his strong suit.

Spock's eyelids lifted; temperate brown eyes flicked to Jim's face, and restfully held there for a moment or two. It seemed even the other's curiosity was at bay.

Jim wondered whether Spock felt better for having told him… what he had told him. He doubted whether the Vulcan had ever had occasion to express such observations, before.

Surely Uhura had understood, long since, what Spock was experiencing – suffering – but she had faithfully shielded him, honoring his constant desire for privacy, and never giving any indication of anything more - except, perhaps, reflexively, to deflect pointed comments, or questions that seemed too penetrating.

And such attacks, Jim knew, were frequent. Too frequent. They had all thought - at one time, or another - that Spock's ramparts were impregnable to even the most sustained siege, and they had hurled comments and insults (though often joking ones) at will, merely for the sake of amusement or bile.

Questions, too. And those were worse, Jim thought, because no Vulcan answer could satisfy, and any response at all would renew the assault.

But, even now Spock could take refuge behind fortifications of his own making: It may be clear to Jim, at last, that Spock had suffered - was in pain, suffering yet; but throughout their entire conversation, until the very last admission, the other had merely stated facts -with very little imbuement of personal opinion, or implied judgment.

A thousand worlds away, Jim heard, again, his own voice echoing in an ice cave: Impulsive words gasped out within the hearing of that other Spock, alone. "So you _do_ feel."

And the other had simply answered, "Yes."

Until that moment – until those words were out – he hadn't really known. He had gone into battle with the Spock sitting here beside him, and not known whether there was anything sheltered within that cool armoured shell – any life – any soul – anything worth protecting, at all.

Now, just for the space of a heartbeat, he wished he still didn't know.


	23. Seriously?

_Seriously? _

Yeah. Being Vulcan really, really sucked. That point had been firmly established, as far as James T. Kirk was concerned.

But who knew that empathizing with one would pretty much suck, too?

You know – Totally aside from the fact that it was probably just plain _wrong_ to empathize with somebody who would just as soon not have you know that he had emotions in the first place.

{'And,' Jim's dozing brain shook itself awake enough to snidely insinuate, 'One who might very effectively throw down, thank you very much - simply for exercise and a little change-of-pace - if you're so obnoxious as to suggest 1) that he did, or 2) that he didn't.'}

Yeah.

Right.

The tea was good, though.

He took another sip.

Yeah, it was good.

He had always preferred coffee, himself.

He drank a lot of coffee - he and Bones.

At the Academy, there had only been a couple of tea-drinkers, that he knew of. Maybe it was just the idea of it: Those guys hadn't exactly had a reputation for being what you'd call 'tough.'

(Well, except for Pike – and he was already a Captain, so he didn't really count.)

But Scotty drank tea, and he was tough; same with Sulu, even if you wouldn't know it to look at him.

Kyle? Not exactly 'tough' - but still, good in a fight: Tricky.

And Spock, of course - though, like almost everything else, he pretty much drank it only in private. If you could get him to fight – if he were really motivated - Spock could kick some serious, serious ass.

So, yeah, tea was pretty good.

(Especially, Jim thought, when it was offered by a way serious non-emotional butt-kicking bad-ass.)

Yes.

Yes, maybe the tea helped.

"It's good," Jim said, glancing at the other. "Different."

Spock nodded. He took a sip.

Jim did, too; then he put his cup down, and its saucer with it. He looked over at Spock, studying him as if he'd never seen him before. After a second, Spock must have felt him staring so intently, because he raised his eyes, and turned his head, meeting Jim's gaze.

Jim hadn't quite figured out what to say. Why did he always think he had to say the perfect thing?

"I'm sorry, Spock, I think I might have messed up your bathroom. It was pretty neat in there, before… you know."

The Vulcan returned his cup to its saucer. He said, slowly, "It is of little concern." He reached out, and put the cup-and-saucer back onto the tea tray, his thoughts as much a mystery as ever. After a moment, he leaned back in his chair, and propped his elbows on its arms; he quietly interlaced his fingertips, and spent a moment or two looking at them. (Completing, perhaps, whatever reverie had been interrupted, before?)

Only then did he lift his eyes once more. "I trust you are recovered, Captain." It was not, quite, a question.

Jim shrugged. "I guess."

Spock just waited.

The Captain thought about it, then. "Actually, I'm pretty tired. I should probably go get some sleep."

He smiled, a little, "No telling what tomorrow will bring."

Spock nodded gravely.

(Didn't he ever get tired, too?)

After a moment, he stood, his attenuated body gracefully unwinding to its full natural height. It was a simple, unconscious action – and, from Spock, a rare unguarded one - but, watching, in his current mental (well - be honest, now, Jim – _emotional_) condition, it seemed to Kirk somehow significant.

Different.

Vulcan.

_Alien._

Yeah, he must be really tired.


	24. Boredom's Not So Bad

_Boredom's Not So Bad_

Reporting to the Bridge early the next morning, rested and refreshed, Jim Kirk discovered that there was an interesting side effect to spending so much time with his Vulcan First Officer: He was strangely attuned to the actions and expressions of his co-workers and friends. He found himself listening to the tones of their voices; and imagining he could (well, almost/kinda, anyway) understand what the others were thinking – feeling - as he observed them. He felt oddly like he was watching them all move in slow-motion.

It was fascinating.

But time-consuming.

And Lieutenant Sulu had glanced back at him a couple of times, now, and caught him staring. The normally unflappable helmsman was actually beginning to look a little irritated – or nervous.

Oh, well.

Maybe the Captain should find something productive to do, beyond sussing his crew: There was probably actual work to be done, even on a milk run such as this current one was promising to be.

He swiveled in the Command Chair, eyeing the various stations of the Bridge. Maybe he could…

No. Spock had only just completed one of his long, slow circuits; and apparently, as far as the Vulcan was concerned, there had been nothing unusual to report. Nor anything usual worth reporting, for that matter. (And, honestly, the guy was a pretty good judge of the interesting, no matter what Bones said.)

He glanced back to where Spock was still standing, leaning over his console.

Uhura was turning in her seat, one hand just touching the earpiece firmly inserted into her left ear. Kirk had watched her do this – oh, a thousand times. She would turn, letting her gaze wander idly over the Bridge as she focused on what the earpiece was conveying. She might turn a little more, frown, tap the tiny device…

Yep: She had turned a bit, and paused, her hand to her ear. Her right foot pushed her back, a little, and her free hand adjusted one of the controls. Then she was turning, again, one fingertip on her earpiece.

Sometimes, when he was bored, Jim wondered what she thought about, as she listened, endlessly, to Space.

What went on in her mind as she worked all day alongside the man – the grave, silent, _Vulcan _man – whom, Jim had long since realized, she would probably go home with, at day's end?

But he had to be really, _really_ bored, to let his mind go there.

(Honestly, there were times he never got past admiring her legs.)

She had paused in her aimless circular progress, and was staring at nothing, her vision unfocused.

Wasn't she?

Jim couldn't really see her eyes – at least, not well enough to determine whether they were focused or not, on something – or nothing. It occurred to him that she could really be looking at Spock, whose tall form was still bent over the science monitors, two fingers touching the comm device protruding from his own, elegantly pointed ear. He was only a few steps away from where she sat - close enough, almost, to touch.

He, surely, was giving full attention to his work?

Uhura had turned a little more, and a little more than that. Her frown was definitely an absent one, and Jim knew that once again he had allowed his mind to hurry down a profitless path – to too little purpose, and too much pain.

Apparently, she felt his eyes on her: Her focus sharpened and shifted; their eyes met.

He glanced away, for a second - and her eyes followed. When his gaze moved from Spock back to her, her frown was deepening.

Uh-oh.

He swiveled all the way around, and checked out the main viewscreen. Well, would you look at that… Space. Right outside his front window.

He drummed his fingers on the arm of the Command Chair, glad - for the umpteenth time – that its designers had left enough room instrument-free, at the ends of them, for him to do just that. Hey, even Spock had been known to tap a finger or two on that empty place, when his mind was otherwise engaged.

Jim cleared his throat, and Sulu and Chekov turned as one and glanced back at him over their inside shoulders. They were like bookends with matching quizzical expressions.

He had to smile at the foolish fancy.

See that, the two in front of him smiled, too; and exchanged a look that told of their sheer pleasure in being in the exact spots they were in, at this exact moment - boring milk run, or no.

Jim chuckled. He climbed to his feet, and stepped down to stand off those same two inside shoulders.

It _was_ a pretty damned fine place to be.

He bounced a little, on the balls of his feet, and Chekov shot him another glance. Kirk intercepted it with a supressed smile. He was feeling expansive. "No Klingons this morning, Mr. Chekov?'

Chekov shook his head. It had to be Kirk's imagination: Surely the boy didn't really look a little doleful as he replied, succinctly, "No, sir."

Sulu glanced up with the start of a cheeky grin. Apparently, he had forgiven the Captain for the relentless staring, taking it as a symptom of boredom, not ire. "Perhaps Mr. Spock could find us some," he suggested, his own boredom causing him to brave a swift and cuttingly logical retort.

"Now, now, Lieutenant. Let's not hope for too much excitement," the Captain chided, murmuring into the tiny expectant silence that followed Sulu's remark.

The helmsman nodded at the justice of the Captain's response, before glancing down at his station, and making a tiny course correction.

Kirk enjoyed the forward view a little while longer, before dropping one hand to Sulu's shoulder, for a second, in a momentary gesture of camaraderie. Then he clasped his hands behind his back, and strolled toward the next station over. Its occupant smiled, too, over her shoulder as he came alongside.

God, he loved these people – this ship - his whole fricking charmed, amazing life.

[Type text]


	25. The Same SameOld

_The Same Same-Old_

A morning filled with routine: Crewmen came and went, along with a constant stream of information and commentary, and reports awaiting his signature, or the First Officer's. There was a consultation, for Spock, with some Science Department technicians; and an engineer bounced onto the Bridge in need of help with a formula – and a certain amount of talking-down.

It was the same same-old.

Things must have been just as bad down in Sickbay: McCoy came up to stand, for a while, at the Captain's shoulder, glowering at the viewscreen. He grumbled a bit about some research he might want to do - just maybe, damn it - and was not appeased by the Chief Science Officer's equable approval, and offer of future assistance. The Doctor eventually wandered off, muttering something irritable (and, thankfully, mostly inaudible) about maintenance, Nurses, and incessant paperwork.

It was still early when Lieutenant Uhura removed her earpiece and turned a little in her chair, smoothing her skirt with both hands in preparation to stand. (Her legs, by the way, _were_ totally amazing.) She must be getting ready to go to lunch.

Had Kirk really watched her enough to know that that was what she always did?

She leaned toward Spock. That slight motion was enough to get the Vulcan's attention: There was no need for her move closer, to reach out one slim hand to gently touch his forearm - So she didn't. Though Kirk suspected, sometimes, that she wanted to.

She murmured something. The First Officer nodded briefly, and promptly returned his attention to the task at hand.

Yup. Same as always.

The exchange between the two of them, however, gave Jim an idea.

When she stood, he stretched elaborately, and climbed to his feet.

She was stepping over to have a few words with Hannity. Perfect.

He dropped one hand casually on Kyle's shoulder for a second, as he passed, and headed toward the starboard corridor doors. "Mr. Spock," he said crisply, "You have the con." He didn't need to glance back to know that the other was nodding.

But he did: And he was, with typical composure.

* * *

A few paces outside the door, Jim waited.

(No time like the present.)

And waited.

(There would probably never be a better opportunity.)

She didn't emerge.

Had she, for some reason, taken the turbolift, instead? Headed, perhaps, to one of the Rec Rooms?

Maybe she was still talking with Hannity. Had something interesting happened?

Maybe he should go back, and see.

Nah. Spock would call him if something good happened.

And going back now would just make him look like an ass.

He moved a couple more paces down, and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and trying to look relaxed. He thought about tucking them behind his head instead, but that was probably pretty dorky, all things considered. Across the chest was definitely better. Why shouldn't the Captain of a starship have lunch with his Chief Communications Officer, every now and then? Seriously – It was just another lunch.

It wasn't like they were – you know; and still, even if they _were_…

Shit. It hadn't occurred to him how this might look to Spock.

Oh, double-shit. It hadn't even occurred to him to send Spock to lunch, instead. There wasn't anything going on. Seriously – Nothing. The Captain could have sent Spock to have a nice, long leisurely lunch or something with his _tres_ hot girlfriend, and no one would have thought a thing about it. (Well, except Jim Kirk - and he just needed to fucking well grow up.) That would have been a decent, friendly, captainly thing to do.

And his hard-working First Officer might even have gone quietly.

But, then again, he might have straightened from his station, and folded his hands behind his back, gravely intoning "I do not require sustenance at this time."

Whatever. Here she came.


	26. Gambit Before Countergambit

_Gambit Before Countergambit_

The door whooshed; and for a split-second, as she stepped through, Lieutenant Uhura's shape was silhouetted against the bright lights of the Bridge.

Again, Jim found himself wondering what she was thinking of, her eyes on the floor.

A few steps from the doorway, she looked up and saw him waiting – lurking - there in the corridor. She hesitated. (And he was a little sad to see it.) Her chin lifted stubbornly, however, and she made as if to march right past.

He wondered whether she would – could. Nyota Uhura was possessed of formidable discipline.

She almost made it. He almost let her go.

But he didn't.

When he stepped up alongside her, walking at her shoulder, she turned her head, and nodded. "Captain Kirk," she said repressively. Then she smoothly moved a little to the side, so that he was the one walking at the center of the corridor, and she was the one off a shoulder.

Impressive.

Really impressive. She had well and truly put him in his place.

He wondered if she had been taking lessons from his ever-correct First Officer: It really was impressive. He grinned. "Miss Uhura," he said, "You can call me 'Jim'."

* * *

She wasn't having any.

Her mouth tightened into a line, and he could feel her growing defensive – angry, even. "I am not going to do this with you."

"What?"

"I'm not."

"It's just lunch," he said, turning on the charm. "You were going to eat, right?"

She didn't reply, and he knew that in another moment he was going to lose her.

"C'mon, Uhura, it's just another lunch, okay?" He deliberately tried to make his voice gently persuasive, soothing – but it might have come out wheedling. He hoped she'd pick up on the 'soothing' bit, and ignore the rest. He smiled, with 50, then 100 watts. "Lunch."

She didn't look over at him; but after a moment, she said, grudgingly, "Lunch," her voice still a little tight.

He almost chuckled with relief. "Just lunch. Honest."

He couldn't resist: He crossed his heart. "Captain's Honor."

(Seriously, did she really just snort?)


	27. Officers' Mess for Two

_Officers' Mess for Two_

"I am not going to talk about him," Uhura declared, her tone brisk and unequivocal.

They rounded the corner, and her quickly clacking footfalls were loud in the deserted corridor.

She was lengthening her stride to pull ahead – anxious to put some distance between them. The door at the entrance to the Officers' Mess whooshed smoothly open in front of her as she turned toward it, and Jim had to hurry, just a little, to keep up with her fast, stalking pace.

"Uhura, wait a sec," he said.

"I don't want to talk about him." Her ponytail swung with the fury of her gait. "Don't even ask."

"I wasn't…" He started to protest. She stopped abruptly, and his next step carried him past her. He turned, only to see a pair of indignant brown eyes flashing furiously at him - forcing him to admit, shame-faced, "Yeah, I was."

He sighed. "Okay? I was." He saw her pull in an angry breath. "But I'm not."

She didn't move, and her glare didn't waver. He unconsciously lifted one defensive shoulder, a palm: "Uhura, please. I'm not."

Wanting to believe in his sincerity - in spite of herself - she let out the breath; and her shoulders slumped, just the tiniest amount, before straightening resolutely. "Okay, then." She turned on her heel, and headed over to get a tray.

He trailed slowly behind, feeling oddly like a kid caught-out, or like he'd been though a storm. He was glad the room was unoccupied.

It was quiet, peaceful – even serene - especially after the vividly-peopled flurry of purposeful activity on the Bridge.

He wondered how Spock could stand that: The bright constant bustle, and noise.

(It must, he thought, be a constant drain…)

Even in the aftermath of being good-and-pissed, Uhura was polite: She had already grabbed a tray, but was waiting for him to catch up before entering her lunch order. He absently took a tray, and held it awkwardly in front of him, staring at nothing - thinking. When a few seconds had passed, and he hadn't reached for the controls, her voice prompted him, "Captain?"

He looked up. She was looking at him curiously, and there was a little crease – not anger, maybe concern? – between her perfect, arched brows.

"Captain?" she repeated. Her eyes shifted toward the food machines, and she pointed, a little, with her chin. "What do you want?"

God, she was beautiful.

He dropped his glance, and put the tray on the waiting surface. His voice was low, when he finally answered – Afterward, he was pretty sure he hadn't meant to. "He keeps on breathing, working… I want to know how it's possible for him to do that." She had made a small sound; and when he looked up at her, she had turned away. He studied his empty tray, as though it might suddenly explain the inexplicable.

"Every day; day after day." He was still thinking out loud. His voice dropped even lower. "I just can't imagine…"

She put her tray down, right next to his. He was all too aware of her proximity. "No," she said, her own quiet voice surprisingly steady, "Me, either."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her body turning. He watched her lean forward and firmly key in the order for her meal. Her next words were just as firm: "He's Vulcan. He can't do anything less." She collected her food, and started to take it over to their usual large communal table. Then, unexpectedly, she veered, and went instead toward a table-for-two, off to the side.

When his food arrived, he tentatively moved toward her. She was steadily spearing lettuce leaves, carrying them neatly to her mouth. Even consuming a heaping mound of curly, leafy, untidy multi-colored vegetation, she was uncompromisingly beautiful.

He slid his tray onto the edge of the table, half-expecting her to tell him to go away. She merely glanced up, and nodded; so he dropped into the other chair, and started to eat.

Even with his stomach starting to feel a bit… well, like it _was_, he was glad for the company. There would never be a better opportunity – and he knew, now, that he had blown it. But, still, she was here; and he could be glad of that much, at least. They ate for a while in silence, except for the occasional click or clink of utensils.

After long, long minutes, she looked at him, her gaze appraising. She put down her fork, and placed her napkin next to it. "Let me show you something."

He glanced around the vacant room, surprised, and a little confused. "Alright."

"Let's call it an experiment." She stood up and headed smartly for the door. "C'mon."

It didn't feel right abandoning his tray, but he followed her anyway. It turned out they weren't actually leaving: She stopped at the wall comm, and he stopped just beside her. The look she gave him then was difficult to read: Vaguely challenging, perhaps?

"In order for this to work, you are going to have to tell him to do what I want. Okay?"

"Uhhhm…"

One arm crossed over her body; the other hand was on her hip - She appeared to be both frustrated and mildly amused. She asked, a tad impatiently, "Do you trust me, or not?" (She didn't say 'Captain' – which was probably just as well.)

He didn't sigh. (He heard, again, as if from a distance, her voice observing, 'I sure hope you know what you're doing.' His internal response, now, was pretty much the same.)

No, he didn't sigh: Rather, he reached for the comm panel, and hit the toggle with the edge of his fist. "Kirk to Bridge."

The response was immediate. "Spock here." He could almost see the First Officer straightening, as he spoke. Uhura's head was tilted to one side, listening to the Vulcan intently.

Jim took a deep breath. "Commander Spock, are you at the Science Station?"

"One moment." There was a brief pause. His listeners mentally tracked his rapid traversal of the ship's Bridge - Both knew that he was putting in an earpiece, and tapping the switch that would prevent the ensuing conversation being broadcast over the main Bridge speakers. The level voice continued: "Go ahead, Captain."

"Lieutenant Uhura and I are conducting an experiment. She has some instructions for you."

A tiny silence, then. "Yes, sir."

Jim turned, and motioned for Uhura to come forward to speak. He moved a few inches to the side as she stepped up to the wall unit. He was amused when she turned her back on him conspiratorially - and startled by her words. He shouldn't have heard them: He shouldn't have been standing so close. He shouldn't have been eavesdropping. "Hey, Babe," she said softly, and the note in her voice was unmistakable - intended, as it was - for the other's ear alone.

It occurred to Jim that he should probably move further away.

"Lieutenant." Spock's voice was as cool as ever. It sounded so clear over the comm speaker, so exactly like Spock, that Jim jumped aside a little - then simply kept moving in the direction of the food consoles.

In the unjudging silence of the empty Mess, Uhura's voice was a bit louder, and teasing - laughing the smallest amount. "Sweetie, put your eyebrow down, and listen: I can't program this, myself…"

Jim was definitely not listening any more. He got himself a glass of water, and went back to the little table. He idly poked at his food, and watched Uhura talk – grateful, again, for the sound-dampening design of the room. Now, she was nodding, and she shot a glance his way. She turned her back, once more. Noticing her body language, he was glad he couldn't hear what she was saying just then. He swallowed his mouthful and, when it stuck in his throat, took a big gulp of water. He was just putting the glass on his tray when she came back over and sat down, curling her endless legs primly under her chair.

She was smiling faintly.

"Now," she said, comfortably, "we wait." She speared a bite of her salad, and looked directly at Jim. She looked insufferably smug: He thought maybe she was laughing at him, but he wasn't totally sure. (He wondered what, exactly, she had seen in his face earlier…) She gestured with her fork. "He said ten minutes." For a second, she pretended to ponder those words; then her nose wrinkled just a bit and she said decisively, "Let's give him three, shall we?" Another faint, infuriating smile. She was evidently enjoying tormenting him. (Or maybe that was just his guilt…) She popped the bite in her mouth, and chewed it with obvious satisfaction.

Jim took a bite of his sandwich, and wished he had gotten chicken soup, instead.


	28. Just Another Lunch

_Just Another Lunch_

Uhura unhurriedly finished the last of her salad, while Jim picked uneasily at his own. He was still feeling faintly queasy, even anxious; he hoped it wouldn't last – or get worse.

When Uhura rose, Jim started to stand, too; but she waved him back to his seat.

Had it already been three minutes?

She walked away, carrying her lunch things; and it was clear that - now that the moment of… whatever… was at hand - she was no longer amused. Disposing of the dirty dishes, she went over to the service units, and keyed in an order. She waited. After half-a-minute, she came back with the tray, and a new bowl. She stood there beside him, a second; and when he looked up questioningly, she frowned a little, and awkwardly offered him the tray. "Here," she muttered.

Jim reluctantly pushed his own lunch tray away - taking, in its stead, the one Uhura was holding.

She shifted his discarded dishes to the next table over, and sat, again, opposite. (Her lack of enthusiasm wasn't helping.)

He eyed the food she had brought him, uncertainly. He had never seen anything quite like it. As far as James T. Kirk was concerned, new stuff was fine, in the midst of an adventure; in the familiar environs of his ship, however, he tended to gravitate to his usual comforts. He tried to steal a surreptitious sniff of the bowl's contents; but even at this short distance, the stuff didn't have much of an odor. It kinda just smelled… warm. "What is it?"

"You'll see," she said, propping her elbows on the table. She cupped her chin in her palms, watching his face.

"Uhura…" he began, his tone warning.

"Try it," she countered. She reached across and picked up the spoon, holding it out so that he had to take it, or risk being viewed henceforth as a petulant child. She unbent a little: "It's perfectly safe."

He met her eyes, and she nodded.

Grasping the spoon like a weapon, he hesitantly took a bite. It may have been perfectly safe, but it was also perfectly disgusting. The color was wrong, the texture was wrong, the flavor was wrong. It was all the more wrong because it was vaguely familiar – but vastly, hugely _wrong_.

His second mouthful proved conclusively how very, very wrong it was: Too gummy, too gritty, too bitter, too bland. It was both too gloppy, and too thin. Too rubbery, too salty. Too stringy. And _way_ too…

She was watching him.

He promptly lifted another spoonful to his lips. Ugh. Better not to sniff.

He ate it.

Maybe it was something from her culture? A delicacy, perhaps?

The aftertaste was cloyingly sweet. It clung to his tongue, growing sweeter still. He thought of rinsing his mouth – wanted to, desperately - but she was watching.

He poked at one of the lumps with his spoon. He discovered that that really didn't help, either.

He ate another bite, trying hard not to let her see how truly disgusting it was.

It _was_ vaguely familiar.

He ate yet another bite, and tried to figure out why it should be familiar. Not _right_ – that was for damned sure. But familiar. Familiar-_ish_.

Chewing a lump of… something… he looked across the table at Uhura. He wondered whether she could follow what he was thinking. She was still watching him, and when their eyes met, she smiled – or tried, anyway: It was evident that she was determined to hold back her welling tears. He swallowed abruptly, and reached out one hand to touch the one she had left on the table.

"Hey," he said, and he was aware that his own voice was suddenly the tiniest bit tremulous. She had looked away when he touched her. "Are you okay? What's…?" She was frowning at the bowl she had brought him. Startled, he glanced down. He realized he had dropped the spoon when he noticed her expression; it had plopped into the bowl, splashing the contents a bit, before sinking slowly to the bottom. Still, that didn't warrant a frown.

He tried to catch her eye, but she had turned her chin. She wasn't facing him. "Uhura, what's wrong?"

"That," she murmured, gesturing toward the bowl in front of him, "That, right there, is what it means, at this moment, to be Vulcan." Her last words were almost a sigh, spoken on a long exhale: "There's nothing… _nothing_ we can do to make it better."

He knew he was staring - Her words didn't make sense, but they were compelling: She looked heartbreakingly vulnerable.

She lifted her eyes to his, for a second, and blinked.

"Chicken soup," she said.

He couldn't have heard right. "Excuse me?"

She indicated the bowl, quietly. "It's chicken soup."

"The hell it is."

She didn't move.

Observing her closely, it occurred to him that, without defensive anger to sustain her - or a need to show she was strong - she was wrung-out, bone-weary.

No.

She was wrong.

It was just plain wrong.

She wasn't looking at him.

He looked at the bowl. He thought of that first bite: Very wrong.

"I know how much you like it, chicken soup." Her voice sounded tired; even her eyes looked drained. "You eat it – What, at least once a week? Or more, depending. I've seen you."

She shrugged, and shifted those melting brown eyes to the wall comm – He followed her glance, just for a second.

"I asked Spock to program the galley computer to make 'chicken soup' without using anything native to Earth. I didn't tell him why. Most of the ingredients are Nenerian: We figured that Human and Nenerian sensibilities are different in about the same way that Vulcan and Human ones are – It's the closest we could get, with the crew of this ship. If there wasn't a Nenerian counterpart, then the command was to select the next closest thing - as long as it wasn't from Earth."

Jim looked at the bowl. He was not going to think about this too much. He wasn't.

No.

_Not._

He took refuge in irritation. "I am assuming - There is a point to this?" The irritation wasn't very convincing, really.

She shrugged – an empty, half-hearted gesture.

She seemed to realize then, how much she was revealing: There followed a moment when she seemed to gather herself. She slowly turned her head - with a movement disturbingly reminiscent of Spock's - and gazed at him with eyes enormous and liquid. "You know there is, Jim. And you know what it is." Her words were deliberate, even, precise…

Restrained. "But because you asked, I will spell it out for you.

"You want to know what he was like, Before?

"I'm not sure you need to know that – Beyond, really, 'as much like now, as he can make himself be'…

"But here is a data point for you: He used to like a dish called Plomik Soup about as much as you do Chicken. '_Plomik_' means 'vegetable' - so I guess I always thought of it as the Vulcan equivalent of Minestrone, or something."

She shook aside the Earth-food comparison with a turn of her chin. "Anyway, every single thing that used to go into that soup – every last ingredient, mind, for the classic home-made version - is now extinct."

She was silent for a time - and still, like a coiled spring; but when she spoke again, her bitter words came at warp speed, propelled by a violent mix of emotion: "Maybe you can think about _that_, the next time you have your beloved chicken soup."

She suddenly stood, and Jim recognized in her action the move-or-else motion of a person about to come out of her skin. He quickly caught her, before she could run; and held her fast. Her hand was trembling slightly, and he thought that - given the wide range of emotions she could express at this moment - anger really would probably be the easiest.

Still holding her hand, he cautiously steered her back to her chair; and waited while she sank back into it. She lifted her chin and glared at the wall opposite, blinking back angry tears. Her hand twitched involuntarily; then she grimaced, and met his eyes.

A corner of her mouth twisted up. "Sorry," she said.

"No," he replied. "Oh, no." He gently lowered their still-linked hands to the table, covering them both lightly with his other palm - keeping them in contact, keeping alive their fragile connection.

He could feel her drawn-bow tension begin to unwind; only then did he lift his hand.

He suspected he knew what the answer would be, but he had to ask: "Is there anything I can do to help?"

He wondered whether he imagined the slight sideways shake of her head… Her fingers tightened for an instant (which he interpreted as a hug) then softly slipped from his.

"So, here's the thing…"she said, slowly.

"He trusts me."

Just for a second, her eyes slid to his. "I don't feel right talking about him, okay?"

He nodded. She was talking, and he was not about to interrupt. She took in a lungful of air – glanced over toward the wall comm – and, closing her eyes, let it slowly out.

"But I also think you need to be able to understand." The same slow slide.

He hesitated, then nodded again.

She drummed her fingertips on the table for a moment; then folded her hands together - as though borrowing a little equanimity.

"Okay, then. This isn't easy for me… You understand that, right?"

He smiled, a bit, encouragingly. Then he smiled again, and this time there was a tiny touch of humor: "Yep. I think I got that."

She averted her eyes from his smiling expression, and nodded. There was a brief pause. Then, in a rush: "He _has_ to keep on."

The first words out, she was steadier, now: "He has to fulfill his purpose. He has to be what he is." Her eyes flicked quickly to his face, to see if he was following – to see if she was saying enough.

He nodded, and thought this felt strangely familiar.

"What Spock is – what he needs to be – is Vulcan. With all that that entails…"

A pause.

"It isn't easy."

Her voice had dropped a little; and she steadied herself with a blink, and a breath. She turned her chin away a little.

"With almost everything else of his homeworld gone, that's the one thing he can do – the one thing he _has_ to do - for his people, his family, himself. If he doesn't, then one more thing from that planet dies.

"That," she said, "is how he keeps working: It's the only Vulcan thing to do."

Ah.

"And that's how he keeps breathing. By accepting what is…

"If he stops, then he betrays everything that he has ever believed."

She had lifted her eyes, again, to his. Their gaze held for a long time; until, at last, she smiled – though faintly – into the expectant face of their Captain. He had to smile, himself, seeing it: She was breathing, too.

One of her eyebrows quirked unconsciously, and he almost laughed.

"Well, Spock's not gonna do that," he boldly asserted.

No, he wasn't. And so many things, now, made sense.

She pursed her lips. "No," she said, and – light as it sounded - Jim heard a mixture of things in her voice. "He's not." She shook her head.

They sat in silence a moment, and Jim studied her face. A corner of her mouth lifted wryly, and he was distracted from his contemplation. "We both know that that wouldn't be very Vulcan, at all."

After another minute, she smiled again – a real smile: One extending to her eyes. "Speaking of which…" She tapped the tray in front of him, and started to rise - Jim was right with her, standing and grabbing the tray. She gathered up the other one, and together they carried them over to the disposal unit.

Walking toward the doorway, she seemed much lighter; she moved easily, with her usual dancer's grace.

Jim was glad she had decided to trust him: He had the distinct impression that she had really needed someone to trust - a friend who could share even a portion of that unutterable weight.

(His heart ached, a little, to think of her with such a lonely burden.)

Before they reached the exit, he stopped her, with a touch. The glance she gave him was simply curious – not wary, at all. "Thanks," he said simply.

She nodded, and started to move again, but he halted her once more, just for a moment: "For what it's worth, Uhura, I haven't heard a word you've said."

Her expression was unreadable. "Then I hope I haven't wasted my breath, Captain."

He shook his head. "No," he mused, "I don't think so."

"Good," she said.

He was the one who started to go, then; and she was the one stopping him, by gently grasping his arm: "Jim."

He turned to look her full in the face. Her air was lighter, yes, but her eyes were still serious. "There really isn't anything you can do. Honestly. You'd just make it harder… Even mentioning - well, anything - would be an invasion of his privacy."

He started to respond, when her fingers tightened just a bit, on his bicep – It was her version of the little shake of the elbow he sometimes did, himself. "Just accept, okay? Be accepting."

Soberly, he nodded. He would try – and that was the best he could promise to do.

They left the Officers' Mess in complete understanding - headed for the comfort of the same same-old, and their respective places on the Bridge.


	29. Just Another Dinner, Too

_Just Another Dinner, Too_

That afternoon, Captain Kirk kept his mind on his job through sheer force of will. He figured that that was probably suspicious, enough, all things considered, without him turning around every ten minutes to consider his First Officer, or his Communications Officer, or both of them together (which was, after all, pretty much what they were). He was very much aware of their presence – of Uhura's determined strength and startling vulnerability, of Spock's impossibly clear perception – his equanimity, and loss. No: Jim was _not_ going to be caught staring; and every time his mind tried to wander, he wrestled it back to work.

They left the Bridge that evening – he, Spock and Uhura, Kyle, Chekov, Sulu, and Hannity - as a group, hanging out through the short-staggered shift changes, as though reluctant to leave one another. Spock was the last to finish: He did not hurry through Jakobsen's briefing, although he had to be cognizant that the others were waiting.

Watching as the Science Officer gave a few last patient instructions, listening to that calm even voice, the Captain wondered whether, after dinner - once they were alone – the Vulcan would ask Uhura about her 'experiment.' He wondered what she would say. Remembering her anguish – her attempts to transform it to anger - Kirk doubted whether she would be able to tell Spock the whole truth. But he doubted, also, whether she would be able to look into his eyes and lie.

Once again, Kirk shook his head over the complexities inherent in that relationship – everything about it so fraught with difficulty, and pain. He couldn't imagine how hard that must be; but this time, there was nothing selfish tingeing his reflections. And _that_, he decided, made for a nice, refreshing change.

From his place at the usual table in the Officers' Mess, he watched the two go to get food: Walking side-by-side (aware, probably, that they were likely to be observed), they were careful never to get close enough to touch.

Jim wondered, just for a second, whether the universe would end if Spock reached for her, drew her to him, kissed her tenderly in front of God and everyone. The Bridge Crew would certainly applaud. In fact, they'd probably cheer.

He looked around at the other tables in the Officers' Mess, picking out a face here and there. No. No, even here – even here, where the officers convened, in what was supposed to be safe, even ground – there were still a few who were less than pleased that they had to report to a non-Human. (That had little to do with Spock, of course, but that didn't really matter: He still bore the brunt. Too, Kirk knew, there were others onboard who felt even more strongly…) He could only imagine what they would think – say – _do_ - if they discovered that their Vulcan First Officer and their very desirable, very _Human_ Communications Officer…

Damn it.

_Damn_ it.

Jim had known since the beginning that Spock was fiercely private; it had struck him as so unnecessary - and pretty irritating. He had assumed that the couple's reluctance to acknowledge their… whatever… was because of some closely-held Vulcan cultural secrecy. He had always considered that kind of selfish of Spock, even rude – not that Jim had really wanted to have to see it, or anything, but still…

Now, like so many things, Jim was seeing it from a different perspective: What if that obdurate insistence on privacy was Vulcan protectiveness at work – not on behalf of himself, alone, but for _her_?

Yes, there was curiosity on some of the faces, here, even after all this time. And, on some of them, something more: Something ugly… Jim was reminded uncomfortably that he had a stomach, with something vaguely like remembered pain.

McCoy joined them at the table almost immediately, plunking his tray down with a scowl. His mood wasn't any better than it had been earlier; Kirk had to smile. He was fairly certain he knew how Bones had spent his day: His Head Nurse would allow the doctor to dodge paperwork for only so long; and when that limit had been reached, she was liable to turn tyrannical. Today there had been no crises in the offing, no emergencies to deflect her attention - no hope of reprieve. Guaranteed: Tomorrow the First Officer would be reviewing reports first thing in the morning; and the Captain would be avoiding them, himself, before noon.

But Kirk knew, too, that a virtual stack of completed paperwork on the corner of his desk was, to Bones, a huge weight off his shoulders: This evening, McCoy wouldn't stay too grouchy for long.

Around the table, there was the usual swap of the day's 'most interestings' – gleaned, in this case, from a not-particularly-remarkable day. Yet, as voice followed voice, they still found a lot to say. Jim was amazed, again, that these cheek-by-jowl colleagues could delight so in each others' company.

The conversation grew lively; and yes, the doctor soon joined in. Spock's level gaze travelled from speaker to speaker, as he quietly ate. Jim found himself wondering what the other saw, heard behind their words.

Today, Jim just listened, too, grateful once more that Spock had chosen to join them at last: That had taken a long time; and Jim pondered, sometimes, the reasons for that initial reluctance. Early on, he had found that uncharacteristic hesitation interesting, even amusing - His ideas about that were changing, now, too.

But today… Today, as the words flowed around him, Jim's 'most interesting' he just couldn't share. He looked down at his tray, glad he had selected… well, anything but chicken soup.

No. He was not going to look at Uhura.

Without him telling them to, his eyes strayed to the plate in front of Spock. It held something green - simple and spare.

Right.

Most of the time, on missions, Spock refused food and drink as unobtrusively - as respectfully - as he could. When challenged, he would say some enormously superior-sounding something about Vulcan physiology. True; but Jim personally chalked it up to sheer stubbornness and strict ethical vegetarianism: The guy was sorta limited, really, about things he _would_ eat.

But there had also been, oh, a handful of shore leaves when he _had_ eaten; he had simply requested, in his most toneless Vulcan voice, 'vegetables, water-steamed, plain' no more specifically than that. Jim and the others had razzed him about it, saying that that was a terrible thing to order: No one could _want_ to eat that – No one could care that little. (Spock had ignored them, or raised one brow.)

Well, in retrospect, maybe not, to the first; and maybe so, to the second.

Maybe, if you knew you could never get what you really wanted, you might not care what you got.

Oh, God.

(Oh, yeah, Jim: Remember? Sucks to be...)

"… Jim?" Bones' voice broke his reverie: It dawned on him that the rest of the table had fallen silent. Jim blinked, and his eyes came into focus on his water glass. At least, he thought, he wasn't blatantly staring at Spock's plate still: Thank Heavens for small mercies. He glanced to his left. Bones' look of mild concern was turning to wry amusement. When the laughing conversation resumed around them, Bones leaned closer and murmured, "Drop by the office later. You look like you could use a drink."

He was the doctor: He should know.

Jim wasn't going to look at Spock, or Uhura.

Maybe he could ask Uhura, tomorrow, what things Spock especially liked. Maybe they could figure out a way to get them, or grow them, or whatever they needed to do. That might be nice.

(He risked a quick glance, and took in too-aware brown eyes directed, thankfully, toward someone else, while straight black brows revealed nothing.)

Or not.

Uhura surely knew exactly what she was saying when she told Jim that anything he said or did would be an invasion of Spock's privacy. What she hadn't said was that that was about all the guy had left.

Internally, Jim sighed.

It felt like he'd been doing that a lot, lately.


	30. Messages, Incoming

_Messages, Incoming_

A drink with Bones, in the quiet safety of the doctor's sanctum? That sounded good.

It sounded simple.

Yeah. He could use a drink.

Maybe poker with some of the guys, later.

He carried his tray with the others to the disposal unit; and left the Officers' Mess in the midst of them all. Sulu and Watley were laughing behind him, while Chekov launched some esoteric explanation. He heard Timkins call for them to wait.

And yes, there was Kyle's voice, too, and Scotty's bark of delight.

In front of him, McCoy disappeared around the corner – hurrying, no doubt, to check on some patient or other. Wilkinson, maybe - or Parks?

Bromley and Richards had been following the doctor; they paused now, near the corridor bulkhead, their heads together, plotting who-knew-what.

Uhura was walking with Hannity, toward the turbo lift. The latter was talking quietly, and Uhura was nodding, clearly listening closely. Spock was abreast of them; but, as always, a little apart. If you didn't know, it wouldn't occur to you to think it was anything other than coincidence that he happened to be nearby… For a second, Jim wondered whether he should invite the other to join them for the card game, later, if not the drink. He decided he should, _would_; but just then they arrived at the turbolift. Spock turned to go to the Bridge; and, in what seemed to Jim like a frozen moment, he glanced back. Uhura's head turned, too; and during that split-second, Jim felt the communication between them spark, like an electric current. Maybe not a message, exactly – but an awareness… an understanding. Then Spock moved away, the turbolift doors opened, and Uhura and Hannity stepped inside. Jim paused, peculiarly aware of another second lost. Uhura stuck her hand out, reflexively, to stop the doors; she met his eyes. "Captain?" An inquiring smile - friendly and kind.

Just the same as always.

He nodded, stepped aboard.

She moved back and pressed the controls; he reached out one hand and did the same. The women stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind him, without speaking. As the decks went by, he realized that Hannity was just waiting until they were alone to resume her interrupted narrative.

He wondered whether Uhura would be glad, too, when he left them…

He wondered whether McCoy was finished with his patient, whether he would be free if Jim headed there now. 'Probably not,' his brain noted, heedless of the effect of its silent observation.

Yeah.

It occurred to him he should probably get in a workout – a swim, maybe – before going down to Sickbay for that drink.

* * *

The door to his quarters whooshed closed behind him. He automatically started moving through to the bedroom, to gather his things and change for the gym. He was grasping the hem of his gold tunic – about to shrugl it off – when he noticed the waiting-message light blinking on his console. Not Starfleet Urgent; and their orders were current, updated during the recent visit to the starbase: Perhaps this could wait.

He thought quickly back through the messages he'd sent in the past few days – at the base, and since. He decided he'd better keep the tunic on.

(Good thing, too, he noted, then, with sorrow.)

Spock had come across him, once, when he had just sent a message - from the Briefing Room, rather than the privacy of his quarters. The Vulcan had come in, seen him sitting hunched at the table, head in hands - and hesitated. It was very early in the mission – maybe the second such message he'd recorded, maybe the third – and Captain Kirk hadn't learned yet that the recipients would never be ready, even if they were at home; though they told themselves to be expecting such a call at any second, just the same. Spock had hesitated, stepped closer, and stood beside him for a moment; before slipping soundlessly into the chair next to him and composing himself into typical, inscrutable motionlessness.

They had remained like that for long minutes, Jim too numb to acknowledge the other's presence - to summon anger to send him away. At last he had sighed, raised his head, met the other's enigmatic dark eyes.

Spock had been gazing at him, with that odd, frank, unreadable Vulcan stare, abruptly averted when its subject became aware of its weight. After a single blink, Spock's eyes had then slid back to his, slowly; and the other had spoken, quietly, with his usual solemnity. "I regret, Captain, that this is one duty of which I cannot unburden you."

Such an odd Vulcan thing to have said, Jim had thought afterward, with a tiny waking prickle of resentment - Like Spock himself: Odd words in an odd, inappropriate Vulcan moment.

(And yet - Jim thought now - it was, in hindsight, somehow the most human thing the other had said to him to date.)

Kirk had just looked away, knowing that Spock could not possibly understand.

In another moment, the other rose from his seat, and slipped just as quietly from the room – the hissing of the doors the only indication that he had been there, at all.

Everything was as it should be - perfect and under precise control – when Kirk had made his way back to the Bridge. Commander Spock had risen wordlessly from the Command Chair at the Captain's arrival, and waited - delivering his typical concise status report once the Captain had leaned back in his seat, rubbed his eyes, and sighed.

Now, Kirk sat at his desk, staring at the console as the screen darkened, with its dimming list of incoming messages. If he waited 50-some-odd seconds more, it would sleep… He reluctantly toggled the message system and wondered whether he should deal with the worst first, or give himself another minute of reprieve.

Well, honestly, he would never really be ready, either.

He thumbed over, then hit the control, making the new message play: A weary father, looking too much like his son – a tearful mother, trying to be brave. Expressions of gratitude for his personal communication ('such an honor, sir'), his kind words about their boy; praise relayed: Admiration from the deceased, and appreciation from those who had loved him; an invitation that the Captain should come visit, when the _Enterprise_ returned to Earth.

No better, no worse, than other such messages – but, surely (please, God) the only one he would get in answer to one he would have to give to these freshly-bereaved parents… He wondered whether they were a service family – if there were other siblings – other children - in Starfleet. He wondered if it would be wrong to deny those others (if they requested it) the honor of serving on his ship – just on the off-chance that someday -

He stood abruptly, tore off the gold, threw it into the corner.

'I regret, Captain…'

Fuck it.

Fuck cool Vulcan equanimity.

Fuck Spock.

He flung himself onto the bed scowling his resentment, then flopped fitfully over to stare up at the cool grey pearly ceiling.

It wasn't fair.

And his mind whispered treacherously, that no, of course it wasn't. It _wasn't_ fair. (And maybe… Maybe Spock had really meant those words Jim had so bitterly ignored: Rare words referencing, if not acknowledging, emotion - starting, as they did, with 'I'…)

He dropped an elbow over his eyes, shielding them from the light; and lay still a moment, trying hard (so very hard) not to think, not to feel - before his breathing grew labored, and the first undeniable, burning tears stung his eyes.


	31. Bones and Bourbon

_Bones and Bourbon_

"Frankly, Captain, you look like shit."

McCoy hardly seemed to spare Kirk a glance as the latter came into Sickbay, but his eyebrows had drawn together forebodingly. Kirk wanted to turn right then, to leave without a single look back. But he had done a full workout – driven more than he had been in a long, long time – and followed it with a swim that left every muscle quivering.

He was beyond tired. (Exhausted. Utterly spent.) He had been light-headed in the shower.

Now, he leaned against the doorframe; and watched Bones, frowning, turn to the cabinet behind his desk. Suddenly, sitting – and letting Bones rage at him – seemed a whole lot easier than making his way back to his own quarters and being alone with his thoughts.

He sat.

Bones was turning back, that habitual frown still creasing his face. He glanced at Jim, and hurriedly put the bottle down. Swiftly, he came around the desk, gave him a more-than-cursory look, then sank onto the edge of the desk.

"Jesus, Jim," he muttered. His arms crossed. "You eat anything today?"

"Yeah. I ate." Jim was determined not to think… Ugh, his stomach started to rebel. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. He tried to relax his neck – but trying didn't make it so.

"Uh-huh."

No sympathy here. Just as well: Jim wasn't sure he deserved any.

After a minute, McCoy's boots shifted, and moved from sight. He heard the sound of a chair being pulled up next to him; then Bones sat, and a hand was at his shoulder. He looked up.

McCoy nodded. "That's right; breathe."

The Doctor's cool palm was on his forehead then; fingers examining his neck, his throat. Kirk breathed.

McCoy had gone to get a Feinberger, and Jim focused on his breathing while the doctor came back and did whatever reading he was determined to do. 'Focused on his breathing' – how fucking lame was that? But it seemed he'd been doing that a lot lately, too.

Bones nodded at whatever the device told him, and dropped the instrument on his desk. He was leaning again, on its edge. "Feeling better?"

Jim slumped limply back into the chair, then thought about it for a second. Was he feeling better? He lifted his eyes to McCoy's and shrugged.

McCoy eyed him a moment, his expression softening, maybe, just a little. "Bad as that?" He went around his desk, dropping into the arm chair opposite. He fished around in a drawer and came up with two shot glasses. Cracking open the bottle, he poured a shot for each of them, pushed Jim's toward him.

Jim had to sit up to reach for it; McCoy watched him appraisingly. Jim met his eyes, looked away. "Not just 'routine,' then," the doctor stated, with a tiny grunt. "Ensign Bailey?" McCoy picked up his own shot and gazed into it, reading something in its amber glow. "Something happen at the Base I don't know about? Spock being a pain in the ass?" The doctor swirled the glass a little, stared again into its depths. "Some girl reject you, upsetting the delicate balance of the universe as we know it?" He raised the glass, started to take a sip, then glanced at Jim over the rim. The untouched drink was lowered to the surface of the desk, and McCoy was again looking at him intently.

"All the above?"

Jim grimaced and threw back the shot, not caring if Bones frowned at that, now, or not.

"Huh." Bones threw back his own, his face contorting unconsciously in reaction to its raw bite. When Kirk didn't answer, he picked up the bottle and came around the desk. "If you don't want to tell your friend, or your doctor," he said, refilling Jim's glass where it perched on the desk's surface, "maybe you'll tell your bartender." He leaned back and refilled his own, then put the bottle down right next to Jim's.

Jim collected his drink, cradled it in his palms.

"You sure you ate something?" The Southern drawl was a little more pronounced, the tone a little gentler. When he nodded, McCoy's hand dropped to his shoulder for an instant; then the doctor went back and reclaimed his chair. After a second, he slid down in his seat, propped his boots on the desk.

"Yeah, Bones, I ate." Jim could taste the bitterness in the words. In one motion, he downed the bourbon and dropped the empty on the desk. This time he could feel the burn.

"Right. Well, I gotta say: Doesn't seem to be agreeing with you, Jim. Didn't notice: What was it, tuna salad?" McCoy frowned again, then downed his own.

"Chicken soup."

And he couldn't help it: A wracking sob escaped him.

(A small silence.)

Maybe they could ignore that. (He was just so fucking tired.)

Once more, without a word, Bones came around to the chair next to his. An arm was draped comfortably across his shoulders, and there was a welcome sound of more bourbon pouring.

"Gonna be a long night, Captain," McCoy's voice growled. His arm tightened for a second, releasing when he laughed a little, the tiniest touch of dry humor edging in at the end. "Good thing the bottle's new."


	32. Orbit Slowing

_Orbit Slowing…_

Captain Kirk woke with the feeling that he had forgotten something important – That he had been just on the verge of a major realization long-promised, but elusive…

He blinked at the ceiling, its plain pearly grey glow the same as ever. Just the same: Just as blank and mysterious as always in the lights-out dimness of functioning-monitor-midnight on the _Enterprise_. He looked over. There was a pale light shining past the partition: Equipment working, but sleeping – Much, it seemed, like his mind.

Nothing urgent - except that threshold-of-revelation waking-dream feeling of '_this_, I should know.'

The room was spinning slightly and somehow that seemed apt, too.

He closed his eyes, tried to think of something else. The last reports he'd reluctantly skimmed, the latest readings, proposals from Scott to improve warp efficiency… Try though he might, he could not keep his mind from skipping back to that sensation of something fleeting only just-glimpsed.

Opening his eyes, he communed with the ceiling – or tried: It was still calmly ignoring him. With a sigh, he sat up, reached back, flipped on the small bedside lamp.

Bones had brought him home, put him to bed, provided him water and the necessary. At least he could remember all of that – at least he hadn't been that far gone.

Bones had been kind: Left him a hangover remedy to take, "in case, kid," instead of administering a scorn-laced anti-intoxication hypo. Somehow Kirk had been spared a McCoy-patented Stinger – verbal, and medical.

Somehow he'd done something right.

No, clearly Jim hadn't been too far gone.

He popped the remedy into a mouth dry and thick-tongued, drank off the glass of water. He sat in one place, unmoving, for a long moment, while the room's orbit slowed, then halted, in a hardly-noticeable tapering-off. He looked around the room, again: It was behaving itself, no longer defying any laws of physics; and his head didn't pound when he tried to imagine a cool level voice explaining exactly which laws those might be.

The ceiling still didn't respond to a head-leaned-back blink: It was just as blank and mysterious as always, keeping its cool pale pearly secrets to itself.

He lowered his head to his pillow, still looking at the ceiling, trying to decide whether – if he went to sleep, now, for the remaining hour or two left before dawn – it might reveal that something his sleeping brain had glimpsed, but failed to grasp. He blinked, blinked again – waited…

…and, with a sinking feeling, rolled out of bed, and pulled on some clothes.


	33. Typical

_Typical_

Captain Kirk roamed the corridors of his ship, aimlessly avoiding contact with the on-shift crew - and the First Officer he suspected was awake and working somewhere about – and reflecting uneasily on the day just past. Part of his brain tried to suggest that being uneasy was ridiculous, but his stomach thought otherwise. It had its own firmly-held opinions, thanks.

This had been a typical day filled with the usual routine. Or, at least, Jim thought, it was supposed to be: It was supposed to be all about watching his people at work, really seeing them, celebrating what he knew of them. (The side-activities that made a day of routine tolerable, really…) It was supposed to be about doing what needed to be done – and looking forward.

It sure would be helpful if things stayed the way he thought they were supposed to be. Being the Captain of the _Enterprise_, then, would be easy. Probably.

But apparently things didn't stay the way they were supposed to be… and being the Captain pretty much sucked.

Well, kinda.

It kinda sucked, anyway.

Not like being Vulcan, obviously. Being Vulcan really sucked.

Take Spock. One thing, right there, that wasn't proving to be the way he thought it – he – should. Right?

I mean 'Vulcan.' Hello: Cold. Logical. Unemotional.

Okay, so maybe Spock really was still all of those things. C'mon – He was still _Spock_. He was still freaking brilliant, yeah. And terrifying. He was still clinical and rational and detached, with tremendous power harnessed just below the surface. Yeah. All that.

But that uncanny serenity? It was deliberate, hard-earned. 'Illusion,' Jim thought.

And the Zen-Spockness? The calm balanced cornerstone of all of their away missions? More illusion , probably… _Right_?

Spock wasn't invulnerable. He wasn't utterly distant, unfeeling. He wasn't… perfect.

('Perfect'? Where the hell had that come from?)

It was obvious Spock wasn't perfect. There were lots of things he was, and lots of things he claimed to be (and those were generally inconveniently factually accurate: True, in fact, dammit all), but 'perfect' was never one of them.

No. Spock was not perfect. And the inhuman calm confidence that Jim envied, and desired, was a product of a life-time of effort - not a birth-right, a gift.

Not perfect. No. Indeed not: One thing Spock was – that he wasn't supposed to be, and certainly hadn't claimed to be - was…

…with Uhura.

(Jesus, Jim. You gonna hold that against the guy? Who wouldn't want to be with Uhura?)

Not Spock. It wasn't supposed to be _Spock_.

(Spock was… was… Spock wasn't supposed to want anyone.)

No, not Spock.

Yeah, in the midst of… Nero… it had been obvious, but since then? Not.

Not really, at all. (Not that he'd been looking for it, particularly…)

He had somehow allowed himself to believe that perhaps theirs was a one-time thing – or a once-upon-a-time thing maybe - a reaction to stress, to loss…

Oh, he'd still _known_.

Well, he'd still kinda known – kinda – but…

Uhura was supposed to be… Uhura: Strong, beautiful, fierce – independent. She was supposed to be fun, too, sexy and smart – with a cool, sly, almost Vulcan wit. (Well, she was.) She was not supposed to be tired, tormented, tentative - taken. She was not supposed to be in love. Uhura wasn't supposed to need anybody. Nobody (though that was the challenge, of course). Still… Nobody – and, least of all? Spock.

'Accept,' she'd said, 'Be accepting.'

How was he supposed to do that?

Bailey was bad. Bad enough – worse: A kid way too young, killed in a needless accident at the start of a mission that should have been filled with wonder. He had been included in the landing party against the First Officer's recommendation - since Captain Kirk thought it good to get everybody out, once, toward the beginning of their time, to see what the job was really going to be like. Jim had picked something easy, he thought, for a boy that reminded him uncomfortably of himself. Not as he was supposed to be, mind – all cocky and brash – but the way he suspected he really was, underneath…

It was supposed to be an easy assignment. Typical. Routine.

Bailey had been fine at first: Eager to prove himself – not too independent - kinda uncertain, actually - but fine.

The Ensign had trailed after his Captain - watching, listening - deferential and admiring – until Kirk had wanted to stretch his legs and explore a bit, and had assigned Bailey to duty with the ship's Science Officer - investigating a reading that was out-of-the-ordinary. And it still seemed like it was going to be fine. Spock had been effortlessly keeping tabs on half-a-dozen men doing various tasks, and on the security detail close at hand; then he had called for the Captain, to report on-the-spot. When Kirk arrived, the other was issuing orders, coolly and keenly aware of the actions - the experience and abilities - of each of the men under his command. (Captain Kirk found himself, once again, impressed.)

Spock had said Bailey's name, given a simple order. And Bailey had hesitated.

No.

Bailey had disobeyed.

He had looked instead to the Captain - wanting confirmation, maybe. Spock had calmly repeated the order; and when he had, an instant later, seen danger, and given warning – Bailey ignored that, too.

And he'd died.

Bailey had ignored an order. He'd ignored that quick, insistent warning. He'd looked to Kirk for a counter-order… _Why_?

Did he see something of himself in the Captain? In Jim?

Or was it something more insidious… A lack of trust, maybe… A need for understanding? A desire to know that the order made sense?

Was it because Spock was Vulcan? _Alien_?

Kirk didn't like that idea. He didn't like it one bit - but he suspected it was true nonetheless.

And he suspected that that attitude was more prevalent than he'd care to know about.

When he had received command of this ship, he had been cocky – proud - just as they'd known he would be. He had known that he deserved it: James T. Kirk had saved Planet Earth, and there was no reason they shouldn't give him a ship for his trouble. Even the _Enterprise_, crown-jewel of the fleet.

But he hadn't really believed it, when he'd heard. Oh, yeah – He'd wanted to believe; but, somehow, he didn't.

(And he knew he hadn't done it alone.)

He'd gone in, as ordered, to receive official notification - and he'd been positive, then, there was some hideous mistake.

Surely… _not_ the _Enterprise_.

They must have seen something of his shock. They were quick to tell him there was no mistake. She was his, no doubt there: Christopher Pike was not going to be able to return to active duty for some time. But Kirk wasn't to worry - There were plans for Pike; he wouldn't be taking back his ship.

No. No! That wasn't it; and there was no way he could explain to these grim-faced, determined desk-bound Admirals… He had seen Pike onboard the Romulan vessel; and from that moment he'd known that Captain Pike would never regain command of a Federation ship. Pike hadn't had a choice – but still, he knew he had broken: Chris would never trust himself, again.

Kirk wasn't worried about Pike. Well, he was – but not about that.

No: The _Enterprise_ belonged to Spock. She was his, absolutely, body and soul. Not just because he knew every system inside and out - had recommended and trained her personnel - had personally overseen her fitting-up. Nor even because he had been given command of her, directly, by Captain Pike himself. No - It was something more, something intimate. Jim had seen how she responded to him; and frankly, he hadn't liked it.

(At the time, it just hadn't seemed right…)

In sheer surprise, he must have said the name out loud. "Can't promise anything," they'd said.

"Excuse me?" Not the most cogent reply, maybe; but he really was confused.

"We have not yet decided upon the most appropriate assignment for Commander Spock." The response was cool. Instantly, it became blatantly obvious that this group of men - suddenly older, with fresh worry-lines and cold wary eyes - hadn't even considered giving this ship (any ship really) to the man who'd held her the majority of the time, who had risked his life clearly knowing he would lose it (and considering that a worthy trade).

Sitting in a Starfleet conference room, Kirk had had a sudden vision of a vast chess board - with Spock as a waiting pawn. He could only imagine what sorts of things they had in mind for the Federation's most famous - most photogenic - Vulcan survivor… for Starfleet's alien prize.

Fuck that.

"He's mine." The impulsive words snapped out with all of the patented Kirk arrogance he'd ever managed to exhibit. (If the game was chess, then his opening gambit had been bold, and unmistakable.)

"I beg your pardon, sir?" It was a question and a warning, rolled into one.

"I need him. He's mine - On the _Enterprise_: My Chief Science Officer."

The answer he received was non-committal - but not hostile, either – and he supposed he had just confirmed every opinion that they had formed of him.

But he still got his way.

And he still got Spock's ship.

At the ceremony, he was relieved to note that Commander Spock wasn't there to see Kirk wrest her from him. Relieved – and disappointed: The ceremony made it official.

Official: An impersonal Starfleet decision.

(Impersonal. Right.) Out of his hands.

He had looked very carefully. No, Spock had not been there.

They had never talked about it. He supposed… He supposed Spock just didn't care.

Uhura was right, naturally: He did wonder what Spock had been like Before.

In the moment he had first seen the Vulcan's thin black angular form slicing sharply, smoothly, imposingly down through a sea of anticipatory scarlet, he had heard the admiration in Admiral Barnett's voice – and the clear unspoken assumption that Cadet Kirk, in his ignorant conceit, would have no idea who the other was (although he was one of the Academy's 'most distinguished graduates').

He learned later, of course, that at twenty-five Earth-years-of-age the celebrated Commander held the equivalent of some seventeen doctorates – all quietly acquired while teaching a full slate at the Academy , running the Kobayashi Maru simulations, continuing his Starfleet duties (including serving as Pike's second), and guest lecturing at various institutions of higher learning. Oh – and conducting his own research: The man was a scientist, first - Mustn't forget that…

The Vulcan's rise through the ranks had been meteoric, unprecedented. (Now? Second only to Kirk's own.)

But well-deserved: Spock had certainly earned Pike's trust, his friendship – and his ship.

The written records, in fact, were universally fulsome in his praise. However much the authors had admired his accomplishments and dedication, there was more than cold assessment of Spock's achievements evident in their words: It seemed that the majority of those senior members of the Academy Board and the Admiralty had actually _liked_ the dignified young Commander.

But all of that was before Nero.

After Nero, Spock was a commodity.

They never talked about that, either.

The Vulcan had calmly claimed his station on the _Enterprise_, and that had been that.

Now, Jim supposed that Spock hated it, the whole Machiavellian Starfleet publicity-machine rigmarole. (That would be hard for anyone, really - Much less for someone… let's face it… obsessed with personal privacy and integrity.) But they would never need to talk about that. They could go into Deep Space, and stay there – doing the jobs they had trained to do out of a desire to make a difference - while memories back home faded, and their own faces aged enough that they wouldn't be instantly recognizable when they returned and walked Earth's crowded city streets. (Though, now that he thought about it, Spock's, of course, wouldn't – and even if it did, his sheer Vulcanness would make him noteworthy anywhere… _Fuck._)

But still.

The guy wasn't perfect.

He couldn't be perfect: He had a weakness.

No. Not because he was Vulcan. (Come on. Seriously?)

No - his weakness was one he had chosen: One Lieutenant Nyota Uhura.

Well. Maybe that just made him human.

Not 'Human' (or even 'half-'), but 'human' – like any other human being: Living, breathing, doing his best to get by.

Actually, that was kind of a nice idea, all things considered.

Hey: Vulcans were kind of intimidating. Human beings? Not so much.


	34. In Distress

_In Distress_

Jim spent a good portion of the morning at the desk in his quarters, reviewing paperwork, signing off on the things way overdue, and figuring that - if he continued to evade the eagle-eye of his Second-in-Command once he made it up to the Bridge - he might catch a break for a while on the rest.

He was right. Sort of. He actually managed to avoid the hard stuff for an hour or two - looking, instead, over crew assignments, and potential additions, from the comfort of the center seat. In spite of himself, he agreed with all of the recommendations the First Officer had provided.

So far, so good.

Then Commander Spock appeared at his side, his manner solemn. (What else was new?)

Jim didn't look up; one more scrawled 'JTK' joined the column down the right side of the page.

"Captain," the Vulcan said, his voice low enough to not attract attention from the rest of the Bridge complement, "the Sciences Department update briefing is scheduled to commence in approximately 22 minutes." Jim tried to look busy, kept his eyes on the padd. 'Update briefing'? Update briefing… Right. He'd agreed to meet with the department heads over a week ago - having avoided that, too, for long enough. Now, he'd totally forgotten, and there was no way he was prepared.

And Spock knew he'd forgotten – The confidential tone told him as much. The quiet voice continued: "There are a few things it might be wise to have explained before that meeting; and there was a report anomaly that perhaps we should discuss."

Jim sighed. Spock was so freaking diplomatic it was almost embarrassing.

He considered… '22 minutes' - 30 seconds to get to the Briefing Room, twenty minutes for Spock to lecture, and a minute-and-a-half to breathe and absorb before - while - the others arrived.

Oh, wait: Spock had actually said 'approximately.' The guy had probably allowed a little extra time for Jim to have this conversation with himself…

He was pretty sure 'might be wise to have explained' meant 'you have no hope of understanding, but at least I can try to prepare you so you don't look like an idiot.' And as for the report anomaly – well, Kirk hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. But, then again, there was no guarantee that he'd even gotten around, yet, to reading the report in question.

Spock was still standing gravely at his side. Pondering Vulcan methods, Jim debated the possibility of bluffing… Captain Kirk raised his brow, and nodded, before rising from the chair.

Spock said nothing, merely folding his hands behind his back and solemnly following Kirk to the turbolift.

* * *

Apparently, Jim thought, 20 minutes of Spock-talk was just enough to keep him from humiliating himself in the course of an hour-long meeting. The scientists looked pleased that their Captain had made eye-contact, and nodded at the right moments as they spoke; and Jim suspected that they didn't notice the way their immediate superior retained control of the discussion, and deftly directed it such that there was no time for random conversation – nor, at the end, for a reasonable expectation of questions from Kirk.

If he hadn't been so grateful, Jim would have felt kinda bad. (Spock worked hard enough, without having to make the Captain look good… Right?) He looked around the blue-crowded table at the pleased, interested faces of the ship's scientists, and decided to try –just _try_, mind: No promises – to be better about this stuff in the future.

The distress call came as they were preparing to leave the Briefing Room.

Commander Spock was out of his chair before Lieutenant Uhura had even finished speaking or keyed the transmission relay - throwing a glance at the Captain, over his shoulder, as he headed to the Bridge. Kirk nodded for him to go, quickly.

The Vulcan was still standing at his station, his hands moving lightning fast, when Captain Kirk emerged from the turbolift and stepped toward him. His voice was clipped, rapid, but as uninflected as ever. "Ship's sensors are unable to confirm that Daernnus is under attack, Captain." He slipped smoothly into the chair, and scanned the monitors, his hands busy.

Long fingers moved over various controls, flicked a switch; and a readout popped up on the main viewscreen. Jim turned to look: Known worlds circled stars with tiny markings, uncharted areas were blank and mysterious, blue-labeled dots were Member Planets sprinkled few and far between. The only thing moving across the star-spangled blackness was a saucer-and-nacelles-shaped blip that didn't begin to do justice to the majestic beauty of the ship it represented.

After another second, the field widened. Back along their flight path, toward the bottom of the screen, was the white shape of the Starbase - and to the far upper-right, off along a tangent, there appeared a small system with a lone yellow star, a couple of planetary blobs, and an orange circle around one of the latter - with flashing arrows travelling inward, ominously.

Jim could feel tension washing over the Bridge – In response he felt his own surge of adrenaline, the resultant tightening in his gut. He looked sharply toward the helm. "Chekov, plot a course to Daernnus."

"Aye, sir."

He turned back to Spock. The other felt his question, and spared him a glance. "No, sir, no confirmation." Kirk nodded. If there was any information to be found, Spock would find it; he didn't need to say 'keep looking.'

Chekov's voice piped up, "Course laid in, Captain."

"Good.

"Sulu, make it snappy."

"Aye, Captain."

Spock's hands continued their dance at his computer station, and information flashed rapidly across the science monitors. Apparently there were things to see, just not what they were looking for…

Uhura was next. "Lieutenant, replay that message."

"Yes, sir." Her fingers touched and tapped on controls. Watching them - unable to do much else while he waited - Jim noticed she had changed her nail polish again: Her nails flashed silvery-blue today. Her eyes moved toward him, then up toward the ceiling… and Kirk was ready for the voice.

(Well, as much as he could be, he was ready.)

It didn't sound any better the second time. While he listened, his glance fell on the impassive form of his Science Officer…

"This is the Chancellor of Daernnus. Our planet is under attack. We need aid, and assistance. Repeat: Daernnus is under attack. Please help."

The message-voice issuing from the speakers overhead was wavering, even feeble – filled with panic and helpless despair. Anything less Vulcan-sounding, Jim couldn't imagine. But he could imagine the effect that this message would have on any person – any Vulcan - less Vulcan than Spock…

The other had paused, too, just for an instant - listening - before turning his chair back to his station, and applying himself once more to the search.

"Spock?"

"Nothing, Captain." This voice was as cool as ever, betraying no trace of the tension otherwise filling the Bridge, no hint of any thought beyond that of the task before him. "I am automating long-range sensors."

Cool as ever.

('Presumably,' a tiny part of Jim's mind suggested, 'if Vulcans were subject to goose-bumps' - like the ones lifting the hair across his own forearms at this very moment – 'they would mind-over-matter those pesky signs of weakness away.')

Grimly, Kirk turned to face full forward, moved a step or two toward his chair – and stopped.

Onscreen, the little blip had swung to the right, and was moving more rapidly. The schematic rotated, now, so that the orange-bounded world was dead-center at the top - along the ship's projected course. After a moment, the visual shrank down to fill the bottom-left corner of the viewscreen - freeing the rest to show the real-time view ahead.

Beautiful.

At moments like this ('Even at'? 'Especially at'?) Captain James T. Kirk loved his ship.

Some of the people running it, he realized, were artists in their respective fields. At moments like this, that was easy to see. (He was the Captain of the best damned ship in the fleet. Maybe, just maybe, it would all be okay.)

He felt movement at his side, and looked over to see Spock standing beside him, also gazing at the primary display. After a moment, the Vulcan's head turned, and their eyes met.

Jim smiled, just a little - He resisted saying 'thanks.' Spock nodded, and directed his gaze back to the viewscreen.


	35. Intent

_Intent_

With every passing hour, Captain James T. Kirk became more and more aware that his ship was racing warp-speed toward a danger that was, as yet, unknown.

He forced himself to sit still – as still as he could manage– while activity on the Bridge swirled around him unabated. As time dragged – then sped – then dragged past, he supposed that more than one Starfleet Captain had been driven mad by such forced inactivity. He wondered which psyche questions during which evaluations were the ones designed to reveal that tendency… It was something he'd have to ask Bones, later.

Still, the _Enterprise_ was preparing. Preparing, he wondered, for what?

The ship's Chief Science Officer had been unable to confirm that the planet toward which they raced had even been attacked – much less by whom. Or _what_.

Kirk allowed himself a partial turn of the Command Chair, just enough to grant a swift peripheral glance. The glimpse thus afforded was enough to reveal the hawk-like intensity with which Spock studied the data flashing across the Science monitors - and the fact that the Vulcan's mind was engaged so thoroughly that his hands, when they moved, did so more rapidly than he ordinarily permitted them to.

Just as well, then, that the Captain was the only one at leisure enough to observe him.

Like a well-conducted symphony – or more aptly, perhaps, a ballet – officers came and went, gave reports, handed him padds, while Kirk sat at the center and accepted the information he was given, with a nod, or a smile, or a murmur of thanks. He knew that what they said was only the barest of bones, the absolutely essential – but that he had only to look a question, or raise a hand to halt a crewman leaving, to gain more. Out of habit, he forwarded everything to the First Officer's station.

He didn't allow himself to wonder whether the officers' reports would have been different if the Vulcan were the one in the Command Chair.

Still, the _Enterprise_ was preparing, her crew alert and well-trained.

At the end of shift, Uhura's and Bromley's were the first reliefs to appear. The change-over was as efficient as ever; and watching the smooth transition, the Captain was glad for even that slight change of scenery.

Uhura was still moving toward the turbolift when Jakobsen emerged. A glance at her superior's back was enough to cause the scientist's steps to slow. Her eyes shifted from Spock to the woman moving toward her, and Kirk's eyes followed. He caught the slight shake of Uhura's head, and the blue-clad blonde's answering look of understanding.

He had risen to his feet – propelled, perhaps, by a dual vision of Jakobsen returning to some lab below decks, and Uhura leaving for an evening alone – and he had spoken, before he even knew what he planned to say. "Mr. Spock," he said, and was almost startled when the fierce gaze of his First Officer turned upon him. He groped for something probable to say. "Excellent work today."

Spock's chair had made its habitual still-on-duty quarter-turn counter-clockwise, revealing an angular three-quarter profile, as Spock looked over his shoulder. One long hand was still resting on the console, ready to get back to work. The other's gaze was unreadable, with the intent almost-glare of interrupted thought.

"Take the evening off," Jim said. "Have dinner." Spock was just looking at him.

"Relax."

The dark eyes were unblinking; Jim was sure the other could see right through him – or would, at any second. He raised his chin in defense, as silence seemed to fall around him.

Like a bolt, inspiration struck; words snapped out. "Never know what tomorrow will bring. Better we should be at our best." He put his fists on his hips in a brook-no-dissent pose which he had blatantly stolen from Christopher Pike. It worked: Spock nodded and turned toward his station, with the obvious intent of changing the readout speeds. Jakobsen joined him there in a moment - her step eager, and professional.

Kirk's own relief arrived just then – fortunately - and he could retreat after a quick word and the handing off of a padd. He figured he could go back to the Bridge, later.

But no one else needed to know that.


	36. Scattered

_Scattered_

Time, for Jim, was still dragging, yet the ship was hurtling onward. When he stilled, he could sense the heightened energy of unceasing human activity all around him: It thrummed through the decks, like the engines he knew he shouldn't be able to feel. He had tried to take his own advice - to relax before tomorrow's storm - but his mind, unable to rest, clamored for something to do.

He was going to tackle the hard stuff. He really was.

He turned from the galley alcove with a cup of what promised to be a passable imitation of coffee, and headed toward his desk. It might taste like sealant – no telling, really (that, he supposed, was part of the charm) – but at least it smelled good.

He sat, setting the cup within easy reach; he flipped on the console, activated the padd – and, examining a list far too long for comfort, considered where to start.

The door chimed.

For a moment, he was annoyed; and debated ignoring it.

It chimed again. A second too soon to be Spock - a single ring, so not Scott. He sighed.

He keyed the switch to activate the door for McCoy, his mind still half-contemplating his mounting to-do list: It was even worse than he had imagined. At this rate, he'd have to give up half-a-day of shoreleave just to catch up…

The doctor came in, crossed to the desk, and stood opposite, frowning.

He was empty-handed, still in his surgical tunic. Not a casual visit, then. Mixing business with pleasure? Must be: Something entirely official would have prompted a call for an appointment, or a request that the Captain come to Sickbay.

So, it wasn't something too serious – not something about Kirk's health, or with the potential to affect the whole ship…

He looked up, met the frown, dismissed it.

"I'm busy, Bones. What's up?"

A pause, then, "You taking Spock with you tomorrow?" For all that there had been a pause, the question was abrupt.

"Yes."

Bones eyed him. If it were possible to scowl any deeper, he did so. Jim shot him a look, then scrolled a page over on the padd.

"Working, here, Doctor."

"Make time, Captain." Bones' voice held a hint of genuine anger. Jim didn't call him on the secondary hint of sarcasm - Perhaps it was warranted. He put aside the padd, the fact that he was turning it off, obvious.

"I'm listening." He tried to make his tone neutral.

Aware that he had the Captain's full attention, McCoy took a minute to find the right tack. He paced, a moment, thinking. ('Spock?' Jim wondered.)

McCoy came back, and leaned over the desk, his knuckles a couple of inches from the padd. Jim looked up from them, in surprise, at his words, "You talked to Pike recently?"

Jim just shook his head, willing himself not to speculate.

"No, not lately."

McCoy was straightening.

"Why?"

Bones flung himself into the chair, inadvertently revealing his frustration – or, perhaps, his concern.

"I got a message from him while we were at Starbase Nine." McCoy wasn't looking at him. "I thought maybe it was about you – about your Captaincy, maybe, something like that – " the hazel eyes checked in, then looked past him, remembering, "but when I called him back, he asked about Spock."

Bingo.

"You know they're friends, right?" Bones was looking at him, now.

Jim nodded.

"Good friends? Not just 'Captain-and-First-Officer' but 'Fellow-Officers-and-Comrades-in-Arms,' you know?" It was strange to hear Bones talk about Spock having friends, admitting that such a thing was possible - much less with an understanding of the kind of camaraderie generated by mutual experience in the field, and the trials of Command: It was something that Jim, himself, was only really beginning to appreciate, even now.

"Yes," Jim said, "I know." He hadn't thought about it, though.

Captain Pike had been Kirk's mentor. If truth be told, was still his role-model, and exemplar.

He may have admired Pike, imitated his style; but Jim hadn't really thought about his – their – personal past.

Spock and Pike were friends? _Friends_?

He and Spock weren't friends, were they? Not really, he supposed. Yeah, they worked together, but they weren't really there yet. Probably. Though maybe, in the last few days…

"Yes," he said, "I know." He supposed he did.

('Good friends'? Huh.)

McCoy was eyeing him, again. "Well, Pike is worried about him."

Jim straightened his shoulders, met those eyes. "Yeah?"

There was a line between Bones' eyebrows, another proto-frown.

McCoy nodded. "He asked about him, wondered how things were going." He leaned forward, closing the gap, just a little. "He didn't want to make a big deal, I think; just wanted to know… well, whether there was anything to tell." Hazel eyes flashed to Jim's again, as the mobile mouth gave a twist. "That make sense?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah," he said, "it does."

He supposed he knew why Pike hadn't asked _him_. Or – Maybe he had, and Jim hadn't been listening.

"Yeah," Bones agreed, leaning back in his chair. Jim leaned back, too; and Bones crossed his arms, making himself comfortable for the conversation to come.

After a second, he said, "Thing is, it got me to thinking… How would I know? I mean, whether there's anything different, anything to tell – to someone who would know, or care?" He glanced at Jim. "After that crap in the bar…"

He shook his head, and with it, shook away the grimace forming. "Do you realize that there really isn't anyone on this ship who worked with Spock, before - " a pained pause "well… Before?"

Kirk's own face must have said something, because McCoy nodded.

"Spock assigned a bunch of the crew; trained them, sure. In that sense, they know him. He was an instructor, probably, to half the people on board - and Lord knows, his tests put the fear-of-God into most of those – but as far as anybody who actually worked with him, there aren't many: Certainly not ones who worked with him as more-or-less equals, like Pike, or Puri, or McKenna, even. The experienced guys got divided up, sent throughout not just the fleet, but Starfleet itself."

"True," Jim said. "A bunch of the people who'd ordinarily be out here are grounded, rebuilding…"

He hadn't really thought about that, either; but (although he had held out hope, after making his case) he had more-than-half expected Spock to not report as the _Enterprise_ shipped out – needed at the Academy, perhaps, or on the infant Vulcan Colony.

"Right, or at bases or whatever." McCoy wasn't finished: "It's one more thing that sets Spock apart. You and me, Jim, we got all kinds of guys on this ship who know us. Some might not like us much – though I suspect that's changing – but we've got a bunch that we've had the common experience with, of starting off, if you will, with a bang. Guys who'll tell stories of early days, the Academy - stuff like that - department tests, weekend leaves, acts of stupidity… So, even though you've leaped ahead, you still got history – See?"

"Yeah, Bones, I see what you mean." Jim pulled his legs back under his chair, wrapped his arms across his chest. He felt suddenly cold.

Silence fell while the implications struck home. Then he remembered something, and took heart: "Uhura."

He glanced up to see McCoy shaking his head.

"Doesn't count." The doctor had clearly already had that thought: "She didn't serve with him.

"Yeah, she knew him before - but her experience, honestly, is more like ours than his." Bones shook his head again. "Think about it."

And Kirk had to admit he was right. Even if the two had 'history,' it wasn't the kind Bones meant.

"Besides," McCoy said, "the Spock she knows is (presumably) different, in a way, than the one anyone else would know, anyway, right?"

True.

"Long story short, Jim," McCoy declared, "I started looking around.

"There are a couple of guys in Security who went on missions with him when they served on the Farragut – your old friend is one of them, by the way – but, though they 'have great respect for the Commander' (superior officer that he is), they wouldn't notice if he grew a third arm.

"Same with the guys in the Sciences Department, though for different reasons: They love the man – _love_ him - Seriously, Jim, you should hear them! – but they are in awe of him, too. I think they wouldn't be a bit surprised if he suddenly displayed the ability to walk on water…"

McCoy allowed himself a tiny derisive snort, before he went on.

"But really, that's about it.

"Hannity had served with Pike. She's around, sure, but she hardly had anything more to do with Spock then than she does now. Kyle, too.

"But Puri? Dead. Schnessel? Dead.

"McKenna? Transferred; same with Depew. Also Rawlings, Yu, Barbiano...

"And Chris Pike is grounded - and worried."

McCoy looked up at Jim, shaking his head. "Worried. Not a lot, just a little - like you would be, about a friend that you hear about, taking the kinds of risks we do…"

His shoulders rose and fell, in another small shrug. "But enough to ask. Enough to make that call.

"Maybe –" He eyed Jim, his gaze becoming speculative. "Enough to risk it getting back to you?"


	37. Double Shot

_Double Shot_

The doctor's words struck squarely, and sank in with an unexpected sting: 'Enough to risk it getting back to you?'

Maybe. Maybe Pike _was_ worried enough to risk it getting back to Jim.

Or, to Spock.

Was Pike _that_ worried?

"When did you talk to him last?" McCoy's tone was lighter, curious – He wasn't pressing, just asking. "What did he say?"

"Not much. A personal call, a few weeks back, checking in: Nothing official. He asked about the ship, told me to take care of her. You know: The usual." Although, come to think of it, how would Bones know? It was both great and awkward at the same time, whenever Pike called: Chris tried to treat him like an equal, joke like he would to any fellow Captain – But they weren't fellow Captains: Pike was an Admiral, injured and promoted, and Jim was the guy who had taken his ship. The calls would invariably end with Pike trying to make a joke - trying to keep from getting too somber, or being perceived as interfering, maybe, or maudlin; while Jim felt young, inexperienced - raw and completely inept… A wanna-be Pike, falling far short.

Exchanging messages was better. Easier. (There was no need, then, to look for disappointment in Pike's eyes…)

So was 'official business'.

How sad was that?

* * *

"So, you're thinking – what?" Jim let the words out slowly. He realized McCoy had no idea he'd spent time with Spock, talking - no idea what the other had divulged. He wasn't sure what he could say about those conversations anyway - what wouldn't be a violation of the other's confidence.

"Ah, hell, Jim, I don't know." McCoy was on his feet again, trying another bound-to-be-abortive attempt at pacing out his thoughts. "Maybe the business at the base lounge has me spooked, seeing things that aren't there.

"I guess, maybe… I'm thinking, you've got me. And, in various ways, other people on this ship: Scotty, Sulu... even Uhura.

"If I need someone to turn to, I've got you. And people come to talk to me all the time – Lord knows, I'm aware I'm not alone in this vale of tears.

"Who does Spock have?

"Uhura, yeah; but that's different. Does he talk to her? _Would_ he?"

Nothing Jim could share, there, either. No matter – McCoy was still pacing, and hadn't noticed the grim line Jim felt his own lips forming.

"Me, I'm betting not.

"And, apparently, he's not talking to Pike, either."

* * *

There was a silence. Bones took another absent step or two, trying, perhaps, to loosen a few more thoughts; then he headed over to Jim's galley. There was a dual gurgle-and-hiss, then he came back with a couple of cups of steaming black liquid. He had already handed one of them to Jim before he noticed the untouched cup still perched next to the computer monitor. His mouth gave a half-mocking quirk, then he raised his cup to Jim in a small salute, and took a tentative taste.

He made a face.

"Christ, when it's bad, it's bad," he muttered, as he dropped, again, onto the visitor's chair.

He settled in and took another sip of the steaming brew, wrapping both hands around the cup as if he needed all the warmth it could afford. He drank again, and looked at Jim over the brim.

"Did you know there's a whole section on dealing with Vulcans in the Starfleet Medical Code?"

Jim took a taste of his coffee - He'd tasted worse. "That right?"

Bones nodded. "Yep. Chapters." He took a sip. "Probably have that in the Command Manual, too, huh?"

Jim shrugged, and covered with another sip. He had no idea. Probably.

"You know how many Vulcans there are, in Starfleet?" McCoy's tone was challenging, his brow quizzical. He seemed sure Jim would get this answer wrong.

But Kirk could still hear Spock speaking, cool and remote… 'I am the first (and, likely, the last) of our people to serve within its ranks,' that deliberately distant Vulcan voice had said.

"One." Jim's stomach was tightening, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

"One," McCoy responded. "I checked." He was out of the chair, then, his unheeded hands forming fists at his sides.

"Chapters, and chapters, they got, all sayin' the same thing: Leave them alone."

The doctor was leaning on the desk again, forcing Jim to look up into hazel eyes flashing with frustration and long-suppressed ire. "How's that supposed to help?" He reared back, pushing himself off the desk with one balled-up fist. "I swear to God I can hear Spock's voice in every last word. I wouldn't be surprised if he wrote the damned thing, himself – or recorded it, anyway, for some poor sap to transcribe."

This time Kirk was the one to get the refills of coffee, while the doctor's feet wore holes in the carpet.

Jim handed a cup to McCoy, who took it with a distracted nod. He took a sip, then shot a glare at the Captain. "You know what recourse that leaves me?" he demanded, turning to face Jim squarely, his furious aggravation plain to see. "Nothing. That's what.

"Not a damned thing.

"Oh, sure, if I have 'reasonable cause', I can relieve him of duty – and wind up filling out paperwork for a week-and-a-half. But I can't make him eat – like I can you – force him to take a day off, take shore leave - send him off to bed, like a good little boy. Vulcans, apparently, don't need to eat, or sleep, or go out to play. They don't like to, so they don't have to."

McCoy's voice was a growl of unrequited rage.

"Well, at least they'll eat their god-damned vegetables – unlike s_ome_ people I could name." This last was delivered in an undertone no less vehement for all that.

This was one of his Chief Surgeon's best rants, yet; and – justified though it was, in its way – and however sincere the emotion - by the time the last words faded into silence, Jim found himself doing his best not to smile. When Bones looked at him and said, "Aw, _crap_," it was over.


	38. I Take Mine Black

_I Take Mine Black_

After they had both wiped their eyes, and remembered how to breathe, Jim was surprised that Bones was willing to risk opening his mouth again.

But he did: He looked over at Jim, and sighed, before saying, "Well, at least the manual was written Before – so that's something."

Jim wiped his eyes one last time, and sat up, his hand still pressed to his side. "What?"

"The manual," Bones said, "The Starfleet Medical Code. It was written before the disaster at Vulcan – So the assumption is there, that there would be Vulcans in Starfleet, and that we'd have to – and have to know _how_ to – deal with them."

"Oh," Jim said, vaguely, preoccupied with the thought that had just occurred to him: What would have happened, if things had gone differently? Would others have followed Spock into the Academy?

Presumably.

Perhaps one day Spock would have commanded a Starship manned entirely by Vulcans… For a serious scientist, that had to be Heaven-in-the-making. Surely they would not prefer to mix in with the Human crews - Would they?

Ah, crap.

Pushing the idea aside, he focused on Bones.

"And...?"

"There are clues. Hints, really. But stuff that might be useful."

"Oh."

McCoy nodded, and shrugged just a bit. "Yeah. It's mostly in the negative: 'Don't do this', 'don't try that.' But there's also stuff that was considered ordinary information. I guess it's better than nothing… I'll go back and read it again – I might have gotten a little distracted." Jim smiled. Bones ignored him. "_Any_way, there are a couple of doctors – Earth doctors, I mean – who studied on Vulcan, who made contributions to the manual, and probably know more (that they might willing to share, I mean) than was able to make it to print. They're on loan to the Vulcans at the moment; but I'm hoping that, under the circumstances, if I get questions together, or whatever - and we're within communication range – they'll help me out."

He looked over at Jim, and grimaced, a little. "You know, as long as Spock doesn't find out and kick my ass or anything."

McCoy sighed, took a sip of coffee, and spoke half-to-himself: "God forbid I should meddle in his personal affairs."

Jim nodded. It felt right.

* * *

Jim refused when Bones went back for a third cup of coffee. The doctor plunked down in the chair, swiveled, and leaned back, stretching his legs out toward the door. After taking a sip, he glanced over to ask, "So, tomorrow: You taking Spock with you?"

Kirk let his breath out more forcefully than he intended to. "I thought we went over this." He deliberately made his voice Captain-firm: "Yes. Yes, I am taking Spock with me tomorrow."

Then, "Why?" Jim didn't mean to sound as suspicious as he suspected that he did.

McCoy took another sip of his coffee. "No reason." He took another sip, then turned his chair toward the desk. "Why?"

"'Why' what?" Now, Jim was irritated.

"Listen, Jim, I'm just wondering why, is all." He put down the cup, and looked the Captain full in the face. "I just told you: There's a whole lot of no-can-do when it comes to dealing with Spock. My job is to pay attention to whatever I can, to try to figure out what he needs. Is that so hard to understand?"

"No," Kirk said, "I guess not." He looked into the clear hazel eyes. "What are you paying attention to, at this exact moment?"

"Hmm," McCoy grunted, blinking, "Good question."

He had reached for his coffee cup, then stopped short, his hand resting on the edge of the desk. His fingers tapped.

"Let me ask you something, Captain."

In spite of himself, Jim was all attention.

"Your friend, Doctor McCoy," The scowling face negated any humor the question could have had, "You know him pretty well, right?" Jim nodded. "When was the last time he took leave? When was the time before that?"

Jim answered without hesitation, perfectly straight. "A few hours, a couple of nights ago: Starbase Nine. He had a day off two days before that. (He takes them when he can get them.) Last shoreleave – what, 6 weeks ago? Six-and-a-half."

"Right." McCoy was still eying him, and Jim had a hard time figuring out where this was headed. "This friend – you are friends, right?" Bones acknowledged Jim's nod, the corner of his mouth lifting up. "Thanks. So, he likes shoreleave? What does he do when he gets time off?"

Jim shrugged. "Yes." Then he thought about it. "Well, I guess he does: It depends. He likes it mostly. He likes to relax and not worry: He likes knowing his friends are safe." McCoy was nodding. "As far as shoreleave itself goes, though, I think he likes planets that remind him of home – not complicated, citified home - but home uncomplicated and simple." McCoy nodded again, looking slightly mollified. "Oh, and he likes planets completely not like home: Ones where he can let off steam, and not have unpleasant consequences afterward."

McCoy looked startled, but had to admit the justice of the observation.

Fair enough.

"Days off?" Jim thought a moment, then threw up his hands. "Hell, Bones, I don't know what you do. Read? Sleep? Hang out? Play poker?" It had been a long day. "You avoid Christine Chapel - and you write letters home."

Bones was quiet a minute; Jim had nailed it on all counts. "Okay, then," McCoy said, fingers tapping, again, on the edge of Jim's desk. "Last time McCoy joined an away team? And the one before that? How'd that go?"

Jim sighed. He glanced up, but his interrogator was not going to let him off the hook. "Last landing party assignment? Last one we had. It sucked. He's a surgeon: We needed him."

McCoy nodded and took a sip of coffee. Jim thought maybe his hand was shaking a little. "He wasn't on either of the two previous ones, but the one before that, he was. It was fine." He shot the other man a look. "It was cold. He bitched a lot."

Bones gave him a wry smile, the corner of his mouth quirking again, just for an instant, before the amusement was wiped away. "Does he like landing party duty, this doctor friend of yours?"

"No. He hates it. I think he hates everything about it: Transporter, danger, diplomats. Hates it all... Mostly. Sometimes I suspect he thinks it's not so bad, but he'll never let on.

"He's scared of losing what he has."

McCoy wasn't looking at him. He stared deep into his coffee cup, swirled it around a bit, and said, "Sulu?"

"What?"

"Same questions, Jim, but with Sulu this time."

Shit. He probably should know. "Okay." He thought a second - He could do this. "Starbase Nine, same as you. Not the same day off as you, but the two days before that. (Sulu likes to have his days-off back-to-back if he can, so it's more like a weekend back home.) Previous leave? Same as you. Maybe taking off a day earlier or later, coming back a day earlier or later – I am assuming that that's a detail, though, and you'll let it slide."

McCoy shrugged.

"Okay," Jim said, wanting to get this over with, "Landing party, was it?

"Let's see, one before last was shuttlecraft. Sulu was at the helm. It was fine: A little rough, but he could handle it." McCoy didn't look too happy, but he knew Jim was right.

"Before that? Uhm… Oh, yeah. Larnon II."

When Jim was quiet for too long, the gravelly voice prompted, "And?" The doctor's eyes were disconcerting.

"Uh, Sulu likes landing party duty, I think. He likes the adventure. I am not sure about the rest: He's still figuring out that what we're doing is more dangerous than glamorous - or fun; and he's not really afraid of the danger. Sometimes I think that makes him a liability."

He looked up; the hazel eyes hadn't shifted. "What else, Doctor?"

There wasn't a reply; and Jim thought back. "Oh. You wanted to know if he likes shoreleave?"

He felt a little defensive. It probably showed in his voice, but by now he didn't much care. "Yeah, he does. He likes the novelty: He likes to have a good time, a little excitement, maybe show off a bit. He likes coming back to the ship. This ship."

McCoy was nodding, smiling a little. He picked up his cup. "You friends?"

"Yes," Jim said, decisively. "Yes, we are."

"Great." The doctor drained off the rest of his coffee.

After a minute, McCoy went over to the alcove, and came back with yet another full cup. He responded to the question in Kirk's eyes: "I am a doctor. You let me worry about me." He put the coffee down, frowning at it; then shook his head at Jim, re-taking his seat. "It's decaf. Nice try."

He shifted the cup over an inch, but didn't drink any. He sighed, and met Jim's eyes. He didn't look happy. "Now, Spock."

Shit. Jim should have seen this coming.

He really did not want to do this…

"Would you say you know him well?" The doctor prompted.

Okay, Jim, breathe.

"No – but probably as well as anybody." Be honest, now. "Except – " He sighed. He wasn't going to say it out loud. "Well… as well as just about anybody."

The doctor's tone was gentle. "Does Spock take leave?"

"He did at Starbase Nine. Before that? I don't even know. Oh wait! Yes, I do." Jim tried to keep the note of triumph out of his voice. "Dinner, on Starbase 12 – but only because I asked him to, I guess." That was… was that really 3 months ago? He shook his head. "Days-off? Uhm… He takes them. But he usually works, anyway. Usually in the labs, but sometimes on the Bridge." He was not liking Bones' expression; he hastily continued. "Not always. Sometimes he doesn't." Oh, God, this was lame.

"What was next?" The words came out hurriedly.

"Does Spock enjoy shoreleave?" McCoy asked.

"I don't know." McCoy started to say something, but Jim wasn't done. "No, really: I don't. He resists it. Once there, he's interested in what's going on, but he usually hangs back, so he's not on display. I don't know if he doesn't like it for itself, if he doesn't like hanging with us, or what. Maybe he just doesn't know what to do with time off, you know?" That made sense, actually. McCoy was nodding.

Jim took a sip of the lukewarm coffee still in his cup.

"Landing parties?" Landing parties, yeah. "He goes on 'em all, pretty much." There was something he didn't like reflected in the hazel eyes across from him… "Well, he's the First Officer: He goes when the Captain doesn't.

"And he's the Chief Science Officer – So I guess he goes when the Captain does, too."

The hazel eyes were relentless, and Jim just couldn't take it: "It's his _job_, Bones." It was a cop-out, and they both knew it.

Then, Jim shrugged. "I guess he likes it. He's usually the one picking personnel; he keeps putting himself on the list. But, really, I don't know."

Another silence.

"Are we friends? I guess.

"Yes.

"No.

"I think – " He was floundering.

"I don't know."

Jim sighed. He looked into those hazel eyes, and was honest. "I just don't know."

"Well, then, let me ask you this, Jim – Since you're not sure whether the First Officer that you spend practically all-day-every-day with is a friend or not… Do you trust him?"

He could answer that unequivocally. "Yes. Absolutely."

"With your life?"

"Yes."

"With the life of every man, woman and other on board this ship?"

"Yep."

"With the ship herself?"

"Of course, Bones. You know I do."

Bones was leaning forward now, all the way, with his elbows on the desk. Jim felt like a lab specimen, the doctor was examining him so intently. After a moment, McCoy spoke, "See? I find that really interesting."

"What?"

"Jim, there is no way in Hell you're leaving Sulu in charge of this ship – or me - even if she's completely deserted.

"But here you got a guy - you're not even sure he's a friend – you have no idea what the man does when he leaves your sight – and you'll place your life in his hands in a heartbeat. And you have – repeatedly.

"_Why?"_


	39. Tackling the Hard Stuff

_Tackling the Hard Stuff_

McCoy leaned back in his chair, still watching Jim.

After a moment, the doctor long-armed his cup of coffee, took a deep swallow, then carefully replaced the cup on the corner of the desk.

"It might be different," he said, slowly, "if you liked the guy."

He shook his head. "Captain Pike hardly made a move without him.

"There were times Spock was called out of lectures, because Pike needed him, needed to run something past him, needed his presence at some meeting or other. And when there was something big going on that needed to go right, Pike needed Spock: Your Commander Spock has the dubious distinction of being the Starfleet Academy professor who spent the most time out in the field - when he was supposed to be teaching 'full-time.' Fortunately, apparently, he left great notes – and he heals quickly - so his students didn't suffer."

He wasn't going to say so, but Bones' assessment meshed pretty well with what Jim had found, himself, snooping through Spock's records. (But without all of the references, maybe, to Pike.)

"So, what is it?"

Bones wasn't really expecting an answer. He reached for the cup, took another swig, replaced it.

Well, Jim wasn't sure he could even manage an answer, but he'd try. "Bones, you ever play Federation Diplomacy?"

"What?" The clear hazel eyes were lifted to him, below eyebrows that were drawing together.

"Federation Diplomacy: It's a Command Simulation from the very beginning of my first year at the Academy. Rough, but great – and a popular reference, later, to get us to think." Jim smiled, remembering. "Makes a great drinking game, too, actually. You ever play?"

Bones considered, then shook his head. "No."

"Well, you should." Jim came around the desk, and leaned on it, looking down at his friend.

"It's complicated, naturally, but the basics are these: Every person gets a slip with the name of a planet, coordinates, a few instructions, a goal or two. The people are arranged in a big room relative to their coordinates; and, according to his instructions, each tries to achieve his goals by negotiating with the other planets."

Bones looked both interested and amused. "That's it?"

Jim laughed. "Yeah, that's it."

"You send messages back and forth?"

"Sounds easy, right? I mean, you're Earth. What do you want? Resources, allies, new territory to settle – improved technology, maybe. You send a message to your pals on Altair, get them talking, and away you go.

"But what about Kleinbeck?"

"Who?"

"Kleinbeck. A little planet out in the middle of nowhere."

"Never heard of it," Bones said.

Jim shrugged. "No reason you should.

"Kleinbeck has limited technology; so the guy being Kleinbeck can only send a short message – and that, only so far. So he sends out a note, and just hopes that it will get passed, eventually, to the people who actually make policy – and might be interested enough to help him."

"Okay," McCoy said, "that makes sense."

"I know," Jim replied, "it makes sense. But it's fiendish. Poor Kleinbeck, sending out message after message hoping against hope that someone will eventually listen… Because the thing is, Bones, that everybody else is too busy trying to meet their own goals to pay any attention to poor Kleinbeck, way out at the edges of the Galaxy – leaning, if you will, against the wall, on the far side of the room.

"Right at the center - seated close around the table - are Earth, and Alpha Centauri, and Altair, and all of the other movers and shakers of the great UFP. With their technology, they get to talk face to face – to argue shit out. It's all too easy for them to get caught up in their own affairs; to see only each other, and turn their backs on all of the humbler Member planets on the periphery – not to mention those Independents with nothing of apparent worth to offer.

"12 great men in comfy chairs, disputing around a vast shining table – very impressive indeed… when you're the guy leaning against the wall."

McCoy registered the sarcasm, before Jim's voice dropped. "And lurking around the edges are the Klingon and Romulan Empires, who might just swoop in and 'take an interest' if the guys at the table aren't paying enough attention."

Bones suppressed a shudder. "Sounds like fun."

Jim grinned, "I know, right?" He reached out and clapped his friend on the shoulder, before taking a pace or two of his own.

It took a second, then: "Hey," Bones wondered, "Where are the Vulcans during all this?"

"Where, indeed?"Jim turned, with a passable – if unconscious - imitation of his First Officer. "I said the table held 12; I'm glad you noticed that. But the UFP Council has 13 primary members… What of the Vulcans – those proud, aloof creatures? Does their Representative sit idly at a table - in the chair reserved at the right hand of the UFP President - wasting her time with the squabbles of Earth and her belligerent neighbors, dictating peace in such a way that the others have to take it?

"Obviously," Jim said, with satisfaction, "Not.

"Vulcan, my friend, sits apart. She has a comfortable chair a ways from the others, where they cannot help but be aware of her. She perches on its edge and coolly listens to the swirling chaos around her. However, Vulcan technology is very sophisticated, indeed. She can move, to investigate something that interests her; she can intercept messages, and receive appeals - and be called upon to mediate between Tellurite and Andorian, as they hurl accusations at one another, distracting the other Council Members from the progress they make.

"The problem with Vulcan, of course, is that it is too easy for her to become the wise old woman, solving everyone's problems. Vulcan doesn't like that: She thinks people should grow, and develop - figure stuff out for themselves. So Vulcan has a limit: Vulcan can only verbally interfere – proposing solutions to the problems of others – once every two hours. And she will only say so much. Once she has spoken, the clock resets, and she is silent for two hours more."

Jim could see McCoy thinking about it, picturing it. When the scowl returned, Kirk nodded.

"I know, right? Thing is, the first round, everybody around the table – The UFP Council, I mean – all learned to behave themselves when they thought the Vulcan member was paying attention. As long as she sat there - even if she was reading notes she had intercepted - they argued logically and reasonably; but when she walked away, they'd devolve. It was fascinating."

Bones was shaking his head. Jim said, "Like kids, honestly."

"No, Jim," Bones said, slowly, "That's not what I was thinking, at all."

"No?"

"Huh-uhn." He looked at Jim, his forehead furrowed. "I was thinking about Spock." The hazel eyes were solemn, indeed, and there was pain in their depths.

"You say this was a Command Track exercise?"

"Yes," Jim answered. "The game changed when Starships were added, bringing the Federation out to the edges."

"Of course it did." There was a lot going on in Bones' voice, and Jim wondered what the Doctor would have made of the huge echoing chamber, with bodies scattered about: There were those who gave up quickly - deciding that getting their needs met in the vastness was futile - and those who let power go to their heads. One girl sat in the corner sobbing, as her 'people' starved.

"Well, Spock went both Science and Command, right? I'm just wondering whether they forced their young Vulcan recruit – their very first, mind - to play this game, or observe it, or what.

"Do you think they knew he was the Ambassador's son? Would they have made him be Vulcan? (Just picture that…) Or a powerless little Kleinbeck?

"Did they punish him for his peoples' perceived faults, making him some automated relay station?

"Or - perhaps worse - did Starfleet (his future colleagues, Jim) hide the exercise from him: Inventing some other task for him to do, while all of his classmates spent however long learning this lesson?

"Did the cadets come back and stare at him, imagining him perched on the edge of that chair?

"I know you think Spock has got it all together; and maybe he does – Hell, I don't know – but he still has to think _some_thing about this shit… _feel_ something, right?"


	40. Diplomacy

_Diplomacy_

Jim's stomach tightened another notch; and he wanted to tell Bones - well, everything. He knew it would come out incoherent and jumbled, and not cool and remote, at all; and since that would totally miss the point - and ruin the effect - he just didn't try.

He took one more sip of cold black liquid, and put it aside with a face as impassive as he could make it be.

McCoy wasn't fooled. "Sit," he said.

Searching that well-known face, Jim felt his stomach sinking. He thought about resisting, about running - about informing the doctor firmly that tomorrow would be a busy day.

But then, in the end, he decided to sit.

He hunched there waiting for Bones to speak, wishing, just a little, that his desk chair was more like the one on the Bridge.

"Let me tell you about my friend, Jim Kirk," Bones said, his voice nice and conversational. He shot Jim a glance, then leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out and crossing his boots.

Jim's stomach sank a little further, and he tried leaning back.

"This guy – my friend – is Captain of a Starship. He's got a lot of responsibility that he suspects he's really not ready for." Bones crossed his arms over his chest, and coolly eyed Kirk a moment, considering.

"He takes days off, when they come up on rotation - and sometimes just because - and doesn't really know what to do with himself. He wants to read a book, do nothing, maybe; hang out with buddies, drink too much, get laid. But he's never really free - because, well, he's the Captain, and that shit gets around: It might undermine the authority that he already thinks is tenuous enough.

"So Jim's lonely sometimes… He suspects he should catch up with old friends, but doesn't know who to write to, anymore.

"He goes on shore leave when he can – loves it – goes with a trusted few, and relaxes, pretends to be anything but the Captain of a Starship, with lives in the palms of his hands. (And sometimes he goes alone, so he doesn't have to pretend anything at all.) He goes off, takes risks – does really stupid shit, in fact – and comes back to a beautiful ship that he's just a little bit afraid to fall in love with, in case the Admiralty realizes they've made a mistake."

Jim straightened, a little, in his seat; but the doctor was undeterred.

"The Captain goes on landing parties when they sound exciting, when they sound like a challenge, when they might be fun. And he goes other times, because he's bored, or he should, or he wants to show off. Maybe, sometimes, when he feels the need to hit something that just might hit back."

Jim started to protest, but hazel eyes pinned him in place.

"Jim Kirk is a really smart guy," McCoy said, "and he wants to do better.

"So, sometimes, on shore leave, he takes his conscience with him.

"See, this Jim Kirk has an ace-in-the-hole. He's got a guy at his side who's unimpeachable, who Jim believes is holding him to a higher standard."

"That's enough, Bones, I see your point." Jim's voice was sharp, just short of making it an order. (A part of him was surprised it had gone there so fast.)

But Bones just scowled back. "No, Jim, it's not."

He shook his head. "Way I see it – You gotta figure out this Spock thing; figure it out _now_. You're trying to make him be what you need him to be, what you want him to be - just like the Starfleet desks – and that's not fair to him, at all.

"You can't let him absolve you of your own responsibilities, however much he's willing to let you."


	41. Duty

_Duty_

Jim opened his mouth to protest, to retort, to fight back. But he didn't: There was really no point.

Besides, Bones was right.

After a moment, Kirk climbed to his feet, and tried pacing a few of his own thoughts out. His hesitant perambulation was interrupted by the doctor's rough drawl. "I'm sorry, Jim," he said, "I know you think I hate the guy – and I admit, sometimes I find him hard to like. But I respect him."

At Jim's look, the doctor stood, came over to him. With a serious voice he continued, "No, I do. But, Jim, I…" He looked uncomfortable: He glanced away, a second, then met Jim's eyes, his expression unintentionally revealing. "Tell me: You think there's anybody else on this ship who hasn't got a price?"

At Jim's silent negative, Bones shook his head, too. "You, me, Sulu, we all got things that we're not willing to sacrifice - that we can't. That's part of being human. But Spock…"

He sighed, and decided on a different approach: "Okay. Look at it like this – You want a day off, what do you do?"

Jim didn't have to think. "I tell Spock I'm taking the day off."

"He just nods, and makes a note?"

Jim gave a small shrug. "Sure, why not?"

"Yeah," Bones said, "Me, too. I say, 'Commander, I need a day off,' and he writes it down. No big deal.

"People in my department want time off, same thing: I adjust the duty roster, and Spock signs off on it. He might ask a question – and believe you me, he notices everything, even if he chooses not to comment – but he's willing to accept at face value what we tell him, if we say that that's what we need. Sure, if suddenly I take four days in a row, he might baulk; but he's not really as much a stickler for the rules as everybody thinks he is: He gets that we're gonna be out here a long time, and he's willing to make allowances. He can keep track and make sure it all works out in the end, and it pretty much always does, you know?"

"Yes."

"Right. So, you and me: We stay up too late, drink too much, and last minute we decide we need the day off… That's not regulation - I mean, there's no advanced notice… People are going to have to cover for us, while we work through our splitting headaches, right?"

"Yeah…"

"So, we tell Spock, what? 'Commander, I need the day off'?"

"Yeah, I suppose."

"You're the Captain. It's your ship. He's not going to say a thing about it – And he'll likely do your job himself… And because of that, I'm betting you're not going to take advantage too often. Am I right?"

"Yes," Jim said, "Yes, you are."

"But here's the thing: You'll do it, and he'll accept it."

And that, Jim supposed, was absolutely true.

McCoy's expression said he was reaching, now, and didn't much care for what he found: "I think he accepts it in part because he doesn't really understand it."

Perhaps the confusion in Jim's face registered, because the doctor rounded on him. "Seriously, do we need the day off? No, we don't. We _want_ the day off.

"There's a difference. We know there is, even if we don't want to admit it.

"But Spock doesn't.

"He wouldn't say he needed a day off, if he didn't. Even if he wanted one… He's not gonna lie. Spock doesn't _need_ the day off, so he won't take it. He doesn't _need_ a vacation, so he won't go – In fact, he stays on the ship so we feel like we can leave it."

Tghe doctor's brow creased in a scowl. "Don't even get me started on that man's personal definition of 'sick or injured'…"

The scowl grew deeper, and Jim found himself warding off grave recollections…

After a minute he could hear Bones grumbling half-under-his-breath. "…Make 'allowances for human weakness,' sure - but Vulcan weakness? No such thing." McCoy glanced up, and noticed Jim watching him. His mouth twisted again in its habitual wry dismissal, and the creases eased off.

"Well, anyway," the doctor observed, steadily, facing his Captain head-on, "Spock still has his days-off on the original rotation – He's never bothered to modify that: Like you said, he mostly works through them anyway. And his leave-time just accumulates, and no one says 'boo.'

"I think you're right, that he simply doesn't know what to do – That's part of it, at least. So, yeah, he gets interested in a project, and uses a 'day-off' to work on it and I guess that for him that constitutes adequate 'need'. You and me, we'd just say, 'Guys, this is how I am spending my workday…' and that'd be that. But not Spock.

"I think that there's more to it than that – and I think, like Spock himself, it's all a little complicated."

And with that, Jim heartily agreed. He started to say so.

But the doctor wasn't done.

"Spock takes his duty seriously, Jim."

No argument, there.

Jim nodded, and crossed his arms, waiting. McCoy was watching his face – checking, maybe, that he was really listening.

"And he is one seriously principled guy.

"He is not going to take advantage of his position. Not even one iota: He is very, very careful to separate the 'official' and 'unofficial' parts of what he does - even though, in the end (as much as he works), it's all the same.

"But it might not be…

"'Cause there's Uhura, too."

Jim shifted, uncomfortably; McCoy noticed. He nodded.

"Yeah, I know." The doctor looked away, again, before meeting Jim's uneasy gaze – his eyes reflecting his own disquiet.

"So, Captain, here's a question for you: Do you have any idea the last time those two had a whole day-off together? No? I didn't, either. I checked, and it's been for-fricking-ever." His raised eyebrows and wide eyes showed his surprise at that discovery. "Months. Seriously. Me, I'd have thought they'd manage to arrange it at least every once in a while. I mean, c'mon: She writes up the schedule for Communications, and he signs off on it. It would be a piece of cake, even if somebody decided to take an interest – which they're not gonna. (And, hey, if you did, would you even notice that?) But no, _not. _Apparently, they are both so careful to avoid any appearance of favoritism that they are pretty much willing to give up what_ever_ to that end - Or he is, which amounts to the same thing."

Bones was frowning at him, now. "Maybe that's fine. I don't know…

"But it's not _natural_. (Even Starfleet regs are written for the guys that are gonna try to get around 'em every now-and-then.) I'm betting – everything else being equal – she'd like to have a little extra time with him. Would that be so bad?"

Unbidden, Jim's brain skipped back to last night in the Officer's Mess, and his own thoughts as he watched Spock and Uhura walk away, side-by-side, neither touching nor touched. It was sad, really - and, yeah, unnecessary (surely?) – certainly, at least, to the extent Bones described.

One thing was for damned sure: They _were_ all going to be out here a long, _long_ time.


	42. Never Touching

_Never Touching_

Neither touching nor touched – It wasn't a pretty picture; and after another moment of pained contemplation, Jim dismissed it as something he wasn't readily going to be able to solve.

"So – what?" Kirk asked, "You're advocating that I suggest my Second-in-Command bend some rules? That I order him to be selfish? Just what, exactly, are you asking for, here, Bones?"

"Aww, Jim. I don't know." McCoy shook his head, and Jim could sense his helplessness. The hazel eyes studied him for a second, then dropped, weary.

"Long as I've known you, you've been good at figuring out what motivates people, makes 'em tick. It's as natural to you as breathing… You get inside, and charm 'em, and before they know it, they're eating out of your hand. But, Spock, now, you don't know. You haven't gotten in – and something about him makes it so you won't use what the good Lord gave you to _get_ inside. Unless you got something there to remind you, you forget what it means to be Jim Kirk."

Jim started to challenge that assertion - to say that he tried; but Bones shook his argument away with a frown.

"Truth is, Jim, we're all a little bit selfish. You, me, Sulu – even Uhura. Human beings, we _want_ to be selfish – and sometimes, frankly, we need to be. And that's okay: We struggle to balance that desire against the parts of us that want to do better, and we mostly win. Important thing is, it's a fight we're all in together - and somehow, that makes it okay: We look around and know, more or less, we're winning the fight.

"But something about Spock makes people want to be more like him – and I am not so sure that that's all too great a thing.

"Spock has been through a lot. A _lot_, Jim: Stuff that, if we tried to think about it, would just tear us apart. But he keeps on going.

"Honestly, I can't even imagine what that fight must be like. But he keeps on going, somehow.

"The rest of us just see that - that he keeps going - and not the fight, at all. We have no idea…"

The doctor was silent a moment, somber; before the clear hazel eyes were directed, again, at Jim – the concern in their depths plain as a warning beacon.

"You try to be like him, Jim, and you are going to lose every time. You can't win that one: You're not him. You're not like him – and no matter how hard you try, you never will be.

"You can trust him, rely on him, keep him with you every damned second if you want to – but you will never be Spock, and it'll be a damned shame if you continue to try."

There was a long silence when McCoy finished speaking, and Jim knew there was really nothing he could say. "Are you done?"

"Yeah, I'm done." The doctor slumped in the chair, his hands helpless on his thighs. He shook his head - trying, maybe, to dispel the visions prompting his words. Then he glanced up. "Except -– "

Jim raised his head warily. "'Except'?"

"Well, Spock has had his whole life to be him, you know? Years of training, and all that Vulcan rigamarole…

"I told you: After Pike called, I got to wondering. And yesterday, while you were at lunch, I called him back."

The mere mention of lunch was enough to chase away the comment that leaped to Jim's lips, and he stared at McCoy in silence.

Thankfully, Bones misinterpreted that silence. When he spoke, his tone was apologetic: "Yeah, I know. But it seemed to me that, since it was ship's business, it was justified, and you really wouldn't mind." The doctor had the good grace to look sheepish. "And, Captain, I am telling you now." The half-hearted smile was crooked. "Hannity put the call through. She is pretty and all - and I suppose she's good at her job - but that girl does not have one ounce of curiosity."

He raised his shoulders in a tiny shrug. "Anyway, I left a message; and Admiral Pike called me right back. We had maybe ten minutes - and, given the distance, the connection wasn't all that great - but I guess he'd been thinking, too, because he just wanted to talk."

Remembering, McCoy was thoughtful as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. After a minute, he looked up, his face questioning.

"Jim, someday, when someone asks either of us about our friendship, what're we gonna say? Tell some story, laugh a little? Try to explain an in-joke that really makes no sense? The person asking isn't gonna get much from the words – they weren't there to know the true meaning behind them – But they are gonna get a sense of that history we were talkin' about before. They're gonna know how we _feel_. I am not gonna lie: Talking to Pike was a revelation to me… He and Spock were _friends_, Jim. _Good_ friends: The kind of friends who got history, added up from a whole bunch of little things that you can't just tell to somebody else.

"Thinking back made Pike smile, laugh even, and he told me a story about a concert they went to – he and Jenny, Spock, some other guys on staff - and the dinner they had afterwards. I am telling you, Jim, I know who he was talkin' about, and I know it's the same guy - but unless you knew why I called, you wouldn't recognize Spock from the way Pike talked about him."

The hazel eyes were earnest, as though they might convey that feeling through the desire to do so, alone.

"The Spock Chris Pike knew was the Spock from Before – and, yeah, he was _Spock_ - Vulcan, and all - but he had personality, you know? He had things to say that still make Pike laugh, and things he was interested in, that didn't take place in a lab. That was a guy who is missed, now, at the Academy; who people will still ask after, when they run into Pike, now and then.

"Who Chris'll still ask after, even if he has to make a call halfway across the Spur."

After a moment, he sighed, and spoke low. "Maybe that Spock wasn't always so quiet, so contained and careful…" He ended the thought, with the lift of a tired palm. When he spoke again his voice was only a little more decisive: "Anyway, he sounds like a guy I'd like to meet someday." The palm pushed down on the top of his thigh, and there was a pause as he pushed himself heavily to his feet.

"You know," he said, "before he rang off, Chris asked me something."

Jim's hand fell from where it had been pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked up into the worn face of the man in front of him - a face unable to hide all the worry, and the pain that came with his job. "Oh?"

"He wondered about some song Spock used to play all the time. Wondered if we'd heard it, what we thought… When I said I'd never heard of it, he didn't look surprised - just sad. Said that was a shame."

With one last shake of his head, the doctor headed toward the exit.

He had almost made it to the door when he turned back. He lifted his eyes from the floor to ask slowly, "You still taking Spock with you tomorrow?"

"Yes, Bones," Jim said, almost too tired, himself, to bother, "I am."

Bones nodded. "Yeah, well – Make sure you take Jim Kirk, too."

Then he was gone, and the door had closed behind him.

Jim was left, alone.


End file.
